Ever since the young police officer had arrived on her doorstep the clock had started ticking faster. Here, then, but for the time and place, might be another Sidney Carton. “Shit!” John quickly countered, “What are you going to do? She’s a motor-mouth, Lucy, of the worst kind. The priceless things were gathered, the belongings packed. A film of dust lay upon it; the ink marks were ancient. Death belongs to God, young man.
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