‘Aye, sir. A dark mass of wreckage, over which hung a slight mist of vapour, lay half in the ditch, half across the hedge, close under a tree from the trunk of which the bark had been torn and stripped. The autumn rain had made every surface tacky, the wet seats of painted red picnic tables were avoided. She relented out of exhaustion, yet he would not let her near Marina, his embrace tightening. "On Friday," he replied.
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