Sometimes I think she’s tired of us. I’ve a dread of love dropping its petals, becoming mean and ugly. One thing—he could be thankful for that—the peak of his misfortunes had been reached; the world might come to an end now and not matter in the least. She could not help devouring him a little with her eyes across the Burger King booth, handsome shoulders visibly solid underneath his ridiculous polo shirt, his eyes all sweetness and light. She never touched the manuscript with pencil, but jotted down her notes on slips of paper and left them where he might easily find them.
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