The key is in my trousers. ‘You will arrest me? For—for—’ ‘Trespass, theft and spying,’ snapped Hilary. “I am sick of it. What had been happening all this time? ‘Do you tell me he has not again left his apartment?’ ‘Only to go to some party or other Monday night,’ Kimble said. Or he would find something—a wave in her hair, a little line in the contour of her brow or neck, that made an exquisite discovery. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure.
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