“Very much as usual,” said Ramage. It was a motor accident—a fatal motor accident the evening papers called it. Sheppard, sinking backwards upon the pallet. “You are the Sir John Ferringhall who has bought the Lyndmore estate, are you not?” she remarked. Michelle was on her like a fly, asking her questions about her past foster homes she did her best to avoid, pretending to be swamped every night with sudden reams of homework and unable to be reached by phone.
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