” Ogilvy reflected. He stood outside of the car, bewildered, as she walked up to the BMW’s front bumper. He wanted to put on his overcoat and come after you and look for you—in London. Every so often a wall of water, thin and jadecoloured, would rise up over the port bow, hesitate, and fall smacking amidships. You skulk in shadows, following an émigré. Rain started to pummel the roof of the pavilion, which coalesced into sheets and rumbled to the cement below. “It’s nothing to what I WILL do.
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