Beneath the serene unconcern of Ann Veronica’s face was a boiling tumult. “Mr. While he was straining every sinew, his foot slipped, and he fell, head foremost, into a deep trench, which he had not observed in the dark. Each of my scholars thinks it his own shirt. McClintock was amused. And yet to Spurlock it was only the title of a story he would some day write.
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