Sowerbutt's Burial

The wintry sun glinted on the signet ring as the tall, erect man rubbed his hands together. “Was he high learned, bless him, to cem all ter dis’ance? A furriner yew knew? Thass rum, yew dint mardle about ter Londoner folk afore an’ thass a fact,” the 30-something woman, making her first visit to the capital, whispered in her Norfolk accent.  Her husband nodded, his hand resting on the Beretta M 1934 in his pocket.
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