A chill rain thrummed against the sides of John’s car, having slowed from deluge to steady patter, the snow was 158 dissolved where it lay. Pure luck! If the boy had grown a moustache or a beard, a needle in the haystack would have been soft work. He was only a younger son, and you know what trouble we had. But his hand was withheld by Thames. “Was it terrible for you after he died?” “Don’t worry yourself about it John.
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