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“You were never born,” he declared, “to follow the well worn roads. ‘Lord in heaven, could it be so?’ ‘Don’t look at me,’ exploded Hilary. “I do mean that,” she declared. Perhaps it had been pick-pocketed or jostled from her dress in a hunt. It had ceased raining, but the atmosphere was moist and chill, and the ground deluged by the recent showers. The rest were hieroglyphic characters, executed in red chalk and charcoal. Sheppard.
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