One thing—he could be thankful for that—the peak of his misfortunes had been reached; the world might come to an end now and not matter in the least. “I shot him. Of you, I mean. She directed him to an old part of the highway, a featureless stretch of old farmhouses capped in snow, with the occasional working silo. “Before you do anything else I should advise you to secure those charred fragments of paper from the grate. About them quickly. Spurlock began to munch his water-chestnuts.
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