‘Though we might have done, if a certain addlepated clothhead hadn’t let her get away. But, like all your overbearing sex, you must have your own way. She wrenched her head away from his grip and got her arm between his chest and hers. The silence of Canton at night was sinister, for none could prophesy what form of mob might suddenly boil out. ” She watched his face as he traced his way through these speculative thickets. Mercifully, John had been sick for two of the three days of Thanksgiving week, giving her reprieve from both his presence and the machinations of Katy Pfister, who was always less active on days when he was not around. ‘That’s my pet name. "I'm not particular about rooms.
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