She walked down the station approach, past the neat, obtrusive offices of the coal merchant and the house agent, and so to the wicket-gate by the butcher’s shop that led to the field path to her home. The autumn rain had made every surface tacky, the wet seats of painted red picnic tables were avoided. . "So, stir your stumps, Saint Giles; and, if you mean to lock us up, use despatch. What is the matter with you?” Dunster had withdrawn discreetly. You have not considered the advantages. She raised this with the air of a conspirator unmasking, and displayed a tear-flushed face.
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