You yourself supplied the details. “Is that you, Nigel?” she asked. Loneliness—something that was almost physical: as if the vitality had been taken out of the air she breathed. I want you to hold me and have me SO. You know all this stuff is insured. He had done his best, pitching with determined fury that resulted in two outs. Something or other—she did not catch what—he was damned if he could stand. I don’t want to get old or to watch my kids get married or retire. Ramage demurred. But he reckoned without his host. On that night, I surrendered myself to Jonathan Wild, and became— what I am. “How are you?” He asked, realizing she was unnerved by the very sound of his voice. "One of us has got to die," he panted. “Fuck you, Julian Rimbauer.
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