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The Scrapbook

           "

           "Hasitgottenanyeasier?"

           Helookedupatherandmadehisfeetstartmoving.Oncetheywereactuallyinmotionitwaseasier.Hecrossedtohiswifeandslippedanarmaroundherwaist.Hebrushedasideasheafofherblondhairandkissedherneck."Yes,"hesaid."Where’sDanny?"

           "Oh,he’saroundsomewhere.It’sstartedtocloudupoutside.Hungry?"

           Heslippedahandoverhertaut,jeans-cladbottomwithcounterfeitlechery."Likezebear,madame."

           "Watchout,slugger.Don’tstartsomethingyoucan’tfinish."

           "Fig-fig,madame?"heasked,stillrubbing."Dirtypeeotures?Unnaturalpositions?"Astheywentthroughthearch,hethrewoneglancebackattheboxwherethescrapbook

           (whose?)

           washidden.Withthelightoutitwasonlyashadow.HewasrelievedthathehadgottenWendyaway.Hislustbecamelessacted,morenatural,astheyapproachedthestairs.

           "Maybe,"shesaid."Afterwegetyouasandwich-yeek!"Shetwistedawayfromhim,giggling."Thattickles!"

           "ItteeklesnozzinglikeJockTorrancewouldliketoteekleyou,madame."

           "Layoff,Jock.Howaboutahamandcheese…forthefirstcourse?"

           Theywentupthestairstogether,andJackdidn’tlookoverhisshoulderagain.ButhethoughtofWatson’swords:

           Everybighotelhasgotaghost

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