I touched my scars, and then threw the phone back at Raymond.
“You do it,” I said. “I’ll sit with him.” Raymond swore under his breath and stood up.
“Keep talking, and don’t move him,” he said. I took off my jerkin and placed it over the man’s torso.
“Hello,” I said, “I’m Eleanor Oliphant.” Keep talking to him, Raymond had said, so I did.
“What a lovely sweater!” I said. “You don’t see that color often on a woolen garment.
Would you describe it as vermillion? Or carmine, perhaps? I rather like it.
I wouldn’t attempt such a shade myself, of course. But, against the odds, I think you just about carry it off.
White hair and red clothing—like Father Christmas. Was the sweater a gift?
It looks like a gift, all soft and expensive. It’s far too nice a thing to buy for yourself.
But perhaps you do buy nice things for yourself—some people do, I know.
Some people think nothing of treating themselves to the best of everything.
Mind you, looking at the rest of your clothes, and the contents of your shopping bag,
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