" "You, Miss Enschede?"—frankly astonished that one stranger should offer succour to another. "Write as I dictate," he cried, placing a pen in the jailer's hand and a pistol to his ear. Can’t travel alone, a pair of nuns. The temperature soared to one hundred degrees, sickeningly hot. I want to talk to you, and I must return tomorrow. I’ve never had a homemade Thanksgiving meal like that. CHAPTER XX.
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