He was a little impressed by Ann Veronica’s metaphor of the string, which, indeed, she owed to Hetty Widgett. He watched her constantly, trapped her in corners and slept with his arms locking her like a human cage. A militiaman came belting down the stairs, another leapt from outside the front door, and a third, stalwart and stolid, came in through the door that led to the rooms to the front of the house. ‘Come along. He stopped short of a group of adolescent saplings and turned the ignition off.
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