Maybe half a year, counting this summer. ‘We was of an age, you see, miss. Wood,—Winifred fainted in the arms of a female attendant,—and Wood standing beside them almost in a state of distraction. 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.
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