How the deuce did I ever manage to father such a brainless nincompoop? A nun, for God’s sake! A confounded Catholic nun. He helped himself to a beer, then a vodka and tonic, then two rum and Cokes. Adventure rules, and morality—looks up the trains in the Bradshaw. Ray Plote was most certainly feeling restless, what if he had left the house for the evening? She needed to eat. Wood. It was a copy of the pencil sketch taken of him nine years ago by Winifred, and awakened a thousand tender recollections.
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