Here, put it on your finger. She traveled through back yards and quiet side streets on her way home, careful to avoid the main thoroughfares, fraught as they were with people in cars who would recognize her person or notice her dress. She had found it in 1988, the year of the stock market crash. "Fire!—murder—thieves!—I've got one of 'em!" "Come along," cried Jack. She wished that the drive would never end, but it was only three miles after all. " "How?" exclaimed the other.
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