‘Hilary, thank God! Have you a pistol about you? Or better yet, your sword. Hips tended to be the bane of Shari’s existence as she tried diet after diet to get rid of them. She exhaled, feeling the tension drain from her shoulders and arms. The thought of their faces, and particularly of her aunt’s, as it would meet the fact— disconcerted, unfriendly, condemning, pained—occurred to her again and again. Somewhere you may stumble upon a clew to his identity.
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