She had never imagined life was half so sinister as it looked to her in the beginning of these investigations. “Time for my Patience,” she said. You can’t do that sort of thing unless you do it over religion, and there’s no religion in me—of that sort—worth a rap. “You seem to be taking our little joke more seriously than it deserves, Ferringhall,” he remarked. The autumn rain had made every surface tacky, the wet seats of painted red picnic tables were avoided.
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