Mrs. Jackson’s. ” He said to her with as much casualness as he could muster. . ‘Parbleu, the bullet is still inside you,’ Melusine guessed, remembering how the Mother Abbess had diagnosed Leonardo’s suffering when he had first come to the convent. 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. Then she slowly straightened, releasing him.
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