He displayed none of the airy optimism of their previous talk over the downland gate. ‘Well, shan’t I come to the major’s house up Stratton Street, sir?’ ‘I’ll give the major your report, Trodger. A crisis had been reached, and she was almost glad it had been reached. Slowly she released the hammer on the pistol, uncocking it, and Gerald became conscious that he had been holding his breath. A tourist caravan of four pole-chairs jogged along a narrow street. He looked just like John Wayne in a cowboy movie, his eyes narrow and squinting, except his hair was long, unruly, and jet black. His eyes were red. Part of his head was swathed in linen bandages.
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