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. Sister Angelina shook her head as if to say that such ignorance was beyond her. ’ Joan nodded, her face still averted. “Because I hate you!” She spat. And I think also that Gosse—I mean that one who calls himself Valade—stole it. She would end alone. ’ ‘Sir!’ came from Trodger, and the booted feet clattered off and out of the front door. She had begun to care about her appearance again, looking into the glass he gave her, a thing nearly priceless that was bordered in intricate golden filigree and rubies. ’ Then she ran swiftly out of the library, calling out as her cavalier was almost at the front door.
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