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One evening I was pottering around in my garage, thinking of sanding an old wooden door knob, but not actually doing it. My mind was elsewhere, and every few moments I looked out through the open door across into my neighbor’s yard, hoping she might be heading towards her pool for a late dip, which she sometimes did.

I’m talking about Suzanne. She was about 35, recently divorced with shared custody of a young girl. For four days every week she was a good mother, took the child to school, dressed modestly, and although attractive, would not turn many heads.

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