95 The officer showed her into the sleepy suburban police station, a hub of inactivity on Sunday night except for herself and a slightly drunk woman who had been brought in for DUI. He was so seldom wrong. This morning he heard voices—McClintock's and the Wastrel's. He—he has rather a poor opinion of his contemporaries. A chill rain thrummed against the sides of John’s car, having slowed from deluge to steady patter, the snow was 158 dissolved where it lay. “Your mother was a Gypsy. \"Yes, uh, no. ” “Then why are you sorry that I am going to the ‘Unusual’? I do not understand. ’ ‘But you don’t look anything like her,’ burst out Mrs Ibstock.
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