Molly moved under the featherbed and fitted her body against his, warm skin and hair that smelled of wind and wood-smoke. Before Christopher went to sleep, he thought again, out of long habit, of the things he knew he could say and do to outwit the simplicity of her passion. But he gave up: his betrayals had not saved Luong or Cathy or any of the others. Lovers and agents, living within their secret, could not be saved, or even be warned, by treachery.
Molly murmured in her sleep and threw a nerveless arm across his chest. Christopher felt her pulse on his own skin.
Charles McCarry
***
