The sun was setting, casting long dreary shadows across deformed apple trees. A dozen words, and he saw Enschede as clearly as though he stood hard by in the flesh. Shrinking involuntarily back into the farthest corner of the seat, Jack buried his face in his hands. And if she is not a nun, nor a refugee, and yet is entirely English, I’m hanged if I know what she is. It was eleven o'clock. Skiing trip. Which is also puzzling.
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