She rambles continually about Jack, and her husband, and that wretch Jonathan, to whom, as far as can be gathered from her wild ravings, she attributes all her misery. A dozen words, and he saw Enschede as clearly as though he stood hard by in the flesh. “Will they worry about you getting caught in a storm?” She asked him as she viewed black clouds floating in different directions. ‘I’m not going to arrest you, young Jack—yet.
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