So, bloody but unbeaten, weak and spent but undaunted, he waited for the Wastrel to spring up. Lucy sat in the back seat as the trio sped through intersections in the old sedan. He had been gone entirely one day, for yesterday afternoon he had departed from Remenham House, and she had waited with patience like a saint, and now it was again the afternoon. Above the work-table was a drop-light—kerosene. And most of the others she had met had, she felt, the same steadfastness. It doesn’t matter. His name was Peter.
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