She found herself mildly entertained by staring at the houses through the rain as she walked home, all cast in a gray blurry film noir gauze of rain. Wood. Only identity, and a chance to be someone other than a nun. “So you still think of me as husband, even though we have long since tired of each other. Jack Sheppard is a match for Jonathan Wild, any day. I had already won wars and sailed ships to distant lands by the time I was thirty. For the face under her gaze she could find but one expression—fine.
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