She could neither speak nor move nor cry out. A stout female stood in the aperture, an oil lamp in her hand. "This is strange," said Jack, under his breath. Sure Mike!" At the hotel he wrote a long letter to his chief, explaining every detail of the fizzle. 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. He cannot. Probably some woman on the loose; they were as thick as flies over here—dizzy blondes. She realized dimly that there was no personal thing behind his cry, that countless myriads of Mannings had “My God!”-ed with an equal gusto at situations as flatly apprehended.
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