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Unformatted text preview: there was no genuine trust. But there's love, she thought. There is love and there is a form of respect. She didn't depend on anyone in the world the way she did on Ryan. So she said what she always said at such times: "I love you, my darling," and it was wonderful to say an Ingrid Bergman line like that with so much heart and mean it so completely. "I really do." Lucky Gifford. "Gifford ..." Silence on the other end of the line. A lawyer thinking quietly, the man with the silver-white hair and blue eyes, who did the practical worrying with her for the whole family. Why should he believe in ghosts? Ghosts don't try to break wills, they don't sue you, they don't threaten you with Internal Revenue investigations, they don't bill you for the two-martini lunch. "What is it, darling?" she asked softly. "If you believe that," he said. "If you really believe what you just said to me ... if this ghost got through . . . and the house is empty ... then why wouldn't you go there, Gifford? Why wouldn't you come today?" "The thing took Rowan away," she said angrily. "This isn't fin- ished, Ryan!" Sudde...
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This note was uploaded on 02/20/2010 for the course WRITING 220.200 taught by Professor Julie during the Spring '10 term at Johns Hopkins.
- Spring '10