She was not squeamish—although the sight of the sergeant’s ominous preparations had severely tried her fortitude—but Kimble’s white face plagued her conscience. Superimposed was the agitating thought of what would follow the death of this unwelcome guest: confusion, poking authorities, British and American red tape. The executioner shook his head. Sheppard. They turned off at Glen Grove, a sleepy town of less than two hundred. He inspected the formidable array of rifles and at length walked over to the register. ‘She is constantly thinking of you,’ I said. Her eyes where glassy and shining.
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