She lit the cigarette with a tiny Kelly green drugstore lighter. The sun was all but gone now, the horizon a deep shade of purple. "Mac, did you ever run across a missioner by the name of Enschede?" "Enschede?" McClintock stared at the ceiling. " "But I've got to go!" insisted Rollo, in perfectly understandable dog-talk. You are right. It does not matter to him either way. Mr. Griffin.
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