“Then I accept,” Grace said.
The morning was slowly warming and the wet snow that had piled up during the night had already begun to melt. I could hear in the silence the slow, wet sound of its melting as it dripped from the window ledge and the eaves.
“Are you too tired to make love?” Grace said.
“No,” I said, and the opening in my throat seemed very narrow.
“Then I think we should each shower,” Grace said, “and brush our teeth, and go upstairs, and lie down, and start over.”
“Yes,” I said. And we did.
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Copyright © 1994 by Robert B. Parker
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