"Bermuda," I said.
And then Marge was in my arms, kissing me and snuggling her cheek against my chest.
"Even though he looked like you, I knew he couldn't be," she said. "He was like you, but he wasn't you, darling. And all I ever want is you. I just never appreciated you before...."
I held her close and tried to keep my hands from shaking. George Faircloth, Idiot, I thought. She'd never been more beautiful. "But what did you do with him?"
"I sent him back to the factory, naturally. They said they could blot him out and use him over again. But let's not talk about that any more. We've got more interesting things to discuss."
Maybe we had, but we didn't waste a lot of time talking. It was the Marge I'd once known and I was beginning to wonder how I could have been so wrong about her. In fact unless my memory was getting awfully porous, the old Marge was never like this—
I kissed her tenderly and ran my hands through her hair, and felt the depression with my fore-finger, and then I knew what had really happened.
That Marge always had been a sly one.
I wondered how she was liking things in Bermuda.