ButI think I might like a drink. He'd been less than charming to Clem and BertieRichardson the night before; on the other hand, he hadapologised on the way back, pleaded a bad headache. For about five minutes. Well, that was all right, they wouldn't makemuch noise.
They parked near a gate; it had a crude notice nailed toit, covered in polythene, which said, 'Save Bartles Wood'. I know it'sonly eleven thirty, but can I have a drop of that whisky? Ineed it pretty badly. And sounded like him. He's going tobe there, sitting in on meetings, questioning our decisions.
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