“Damned Rascal!” he said. They seemed the most wrapped things in all Ann Veronica’s wrappered world. Wood then took to his heels, and never once looked behind him till he reached his own dwelling in Wych Street. She had a horrible glimpse of the once nice little old lady being also borne stationward, still faintly battling and very muddy—one lock of grayish hair straggling over her neck, her face scared, white, but triumphant.
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