No amount of scrubbing could remove the stains, the blood of an unknown man she had stolen from the scene of a car accident, a stupid drunk with no license who had wrapped his Chevy truck around a very large oak tree. She’d prefer that I read classic literature, of course, but she only reads paperback romance novels, so she can’t exactly complain. ” He met her questioning eye, and repeated, “Oh! it IS a success. ” She lifted steadfast eyes to him. ” “You came—here!” he repeated, vaguely. Perhaps in two or three weeks. ” She said. ’ ‘But you are bleeding like a pig,’ came the frantic response.
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