Upon my soul you mustn’t come into the place saying you want to know, you know. —Charles Dickens “I hope she gets rabies shots, the silly cow,” said Jimmy as he and Hamish sat outside the hospital room where Samantha Trent lay, waiting for permission to speak to her.“Shouldn’t think so,” said Hamish. “Foxes aren’t known to be rabid. The trouble wi’ foxes is they look right handsome and folk think of fairy stories and all that. If they looked like cockroaches, nobody would think twice of killing them. It’s survival of the cutest. I doubt if she’ll stay on in Cromish after all this.”A doctor approached them. “Miss Trent is sedated but you can have a few words with her.”“How is her arm?” asked Hamish.“Badly damaged but the surgeons managed to save it.”“You go in,” said Jimmy. “What are we wasting time on this silly woman for?”Hamish entered the room where Samantha lay with her eyes closed, her arm thick with bandages.She stared miserably at Hamish.
