"Perhaps," replied Wood, doubtfully. ” She paused, and he waited for her to speak. But between us, we'll have him writing books some day. It is the horse of the priest, you understand, and—and he does not know that I have borrowed it. For ten years I've been trying to go home, but my conscience will not permit me, I hate the Orient. Only old librarians and Shirley Temples say that. Gin Lane's the nearest road to the churchyard. Lucy blushed from toes to forehead, feeling her pace accelerate.
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