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Chapter Five
S itting in Isaac Woodrow’s office the following afternoon, nervously smoothing a hand over the fabric of her khaki skirt, Kit mentally replayed the conversation she’d had with him the previous day. He hadn’t given her much to hang on to in the way of hope. And she’d lost her grasp completely on the tiny threads she’d clung to during a long and sleepless night when he’d walked into the diner that morning, a grim look on his weathered face.
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