She was trying to adjust the wimple, dragging at it and fighting with her loosened hair. Not like my father. 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. A small handgun bobbed at the end of it, aimed at Sheila. ’ ‘Also madame his wife—’ Charvill’s gorge rose.
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