For once, Sowerbutt was
speechless. A dowdy, middle-aged woman wearing gold-rimmed glasses was standing
by the table inside the farmhouse. Before his hand could stretch inside his leather jacket for his
Webley, his jaw dropped further. The woman pulled off her shapeless beret,
threw it on the table and shook out her long raven-coloured hair. It couldn’t
be, this woman was too old. She watched him as she threw off her padded
raincoat, revealing a shapely figure. It was Rosetta.
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