I expect Mr. It—it is nothing,’ she said, although with a tremor in her voice. She came along with the fluttering assurance of some tall ship. “It’s all dirt that washes off, dear, but it’s dirt. A short way off in the fields he descried a sort of shed or cow-house, and thither he contrived to drag his weary limbs. Pausing with the intention of turning back, he glanced in the direction of the village church, the tower of which could just be seen through the trees.
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