‘Good God! Everett Charvill, as I live. Her finger-nails dug into her flesh. Several people were passed out on the sectional sofa, and muffled noises emanated from other rooms indicating that the party’s embers were still smoldering, but John was nowhere to be seen. He looked like a French boy soldier she had once glimpsed marching towards his death in one of the battles they would later call the Hundred Years War. A man might be without relatives, but certainly he would not be without friends, that is to say, without letters. "I thought you'd have got rid of your ill-humour by this time.
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