Sheila had dropped glaring hints that she knew, which Chuck tacitly acknowledged with a lowered gaze. It could not be a legal marriage. He pictured himself visiting the girl in this shabby little home of her aunt’s—she had told him that it was shabby—and he recalled that delicious little smile with which she would surely greet him, a smile which seemed to be a matter of the eyes as well as the lips. My, um, my curfew.
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