No amount of scrubbing could remove the stains, the blood of an unknown man she had stolen from the scene of a car accident, a stupid drunk with no license who had wrapped his Chevy truck around a very large oak tree. “It is against my husband’s orders, and I am not sure that my sister will be particularly glad to see me. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. His hand went to his pocket and extracted a neat silver-mounted pistol. "Hush!" she said, putting her lean fingers to her lips. He was never drunk in the accepted meaning of the word; rather he walked in a kind of stupefaction. . She made herself serenely unaware of his existence, though it may be it was his presence that sent her by the field detour instead of by the direct path up the Avenue. “I noticed him call her attention to us as we passed down the room,” he answered.
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