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Conor would never change. Why wouldn't she leave him? She would when she was ready. He, Oliver, would be there. The waitress swished away. Nice legs, he registered. Too young, though. You can't have them all, he told himself as she disappeared into the kitchen. When he got home, he ironed a blue oxford-cloth shirt and a pair of dress chinos.
"You look wonderful," she said, brushing non-existent dust from his shoulder, her face happy behind him in the mirror. The oxford-cloth shirt was soft and expansive. His gray wool slacks were tightly creased. His shoes gleamed. Her creation. "Now don't be late." Oliver turned and saluted. "Aye, aye . . . Jennifer, I don't know about this." "You'll like Tom. He's a dear."
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