She opened the door to him herself. He glanced downwards at the impetuous torrent, which he could perceive shooting past him with lightning swiftness in the gloom. She directed him to an old part of the highway, a featureless stretch of old farmhouses capped in snow, with the occasional working silo. “I looked for you on the way home from The Big Apple, where were you?” Lucy smiled. “You—appear to know my name, sir,” Sir John said.
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