And now she was witnessing or observing the complicated machinery of civilization through which they had come, at length to land on the beach of her island. No amount of scrubbing could remove the stains, the blood of an unknown man she had stolen from the scene of a car accident, a stupid drunk with no license who had wrapped his Chevy truck around a very large oak tree. She turned about, and was persecuted by visions, half memories, half dreams, of Ramage.
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