It was only a feeling he had, and at this moment he must have been formulating a new commandment in his personal decalogue: Never accuse a friend of a crime if you only have a feeling he did it.
The king retreated to his privy chamber.
Terry's fist lashed out, but Simpson, anticipating the blow, stepped quickly to one side. Another followed, however, and caught the older man fairly on the chin, sent him reeling back.
And so Ross had walked with Jessabelle Rothstein, that day clad in a canary-yellow jumpsuit, to the Starbucks in the park and he purchased two iced caffè mochas—with a shot of caramel each—from the bored barista, and then they’d adjourned to a table outside in the delightful April sun.
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