White was scattered across the long stretches of pine trees and corn fields. Sheila McCloskey was the real neighborhood watch. For the past four weeks mirrors had been her delight, a new toy. She crawled underneath the soft white sheets, reclining and pulling the blankets up to her chin. Supposing the wire should break and her head tumble off her shoulders into the street? The whimsey caused another smile to ripple across her lips. I bent over him. David Courtlaw—Sir John Ferringhall.
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