" "You, Miss Enschede?"—frankly astonished that one stranger should offer succour to another. She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town. With some difficulty he contrived to raise her to the window, and with still greater difficulty to squeeze her through it—her bulk being much greater than his own. ’ At that, a flush drenched her cheeks and she snatched her hand away. He grew even harder. Sheppard. It was not an affair of the conscience; it was vaguely based upon insolence and defiance.
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