" "Give me an acquittance," said Trenchard. "Do nothing without consulting my father—your father, Thames," she implored. She had eaten them, murdered them routinely, and yet he loved her still. The warm September sun fell strongly on this part of the grounds, uninterrupted by trees, its light bouncing off the glass in the mansion’s walls. On the way he confessed. The autumn rain had made every surface tacky, the wet seats of painted red picnic tables were avoided.
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