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Glowing in the distance, cool, firm, confident, the Himalayas reminded him of Irene. Irish male breast fixation, she would say with an amused little smile. He would reply that at least he had good taste in his fixations. And she would blush with delight, limitless in her capacity to absorb compliments.
He had made the prescribed sweeping turn over the Sinkiang plateau at a point a hundred miles short of the Russian border. At least his sextant, a dubious instrument at best, assured him that Russia was still a hundred miles away.
Halfway home. The sun