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... it.
He heard the specific, mortal, completely sincere quality of the question — the question he had been asking her for eleven years in the mornings when she came to bed late, the same question, the same voice, the same intent underneath it.
She looked at him.
Her jaw shifted slightly. The Chief’s jaw — the specific, micro-movement of a woman who was processing something she had not decided to discuss yet.
"Yes," she said.
She looked at the window.
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