Come, mon ami, come!’ Ever faithful, Kimble dragged himself into a sitting position, gasping at the pain this caused him. ‘By traitors I am surrounded!’ ‘Stop talking utter twaddle,’ ordered Roding, marching up to the desk. Sheila pounded the kitchen table, causing the bell jar with the silk flowers to tip over and roll to the floor. They slow danced to a Bon Jovi ballad.
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