Someone bounded up the stairs, which groaned from the strain, unmistakably Mike. His gaze drawn, Gerald watched him dip to pick up a crushed square of white linen and a starched object that resembled a helmet. You do not love your husband, you have married him for a position —to escape from—things which you feared. Perhaps Gerald was not as clothheaded as he had thought. He even hugged her a few times, something he had never done. His curiosity put itself into a question. The smile had become a laugh.
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