Presently he began to weave a tale, sorry enough, with all the ancient claptraps and rusted platitudes. “I want to have no distractions. But it strikes me there's a nigger in the woodpile somewhere, as you Yankees say. Not with the unavoidable explanations, and the need to secrete the sword and hide it before returning the priest’s horse to its stable—which had been her excuse for running from Martha’s protestations. “Sure, are you sure you’re okay?” He exited off the highway onto a quiet road and pulled over.
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