For a time her efforts to achieve a comprehensive concentration were dispersed by the passage of the village street of Caddington, the passing of a goggled car-load of motorists, and the struggles of a stable lad mounted on one recalcitrant horse and leading another. Dim souls flitted about her, not only speaking but it would seem even thinking in undertones. The brown house, almost exactly the same as the Beck’s, turned black as pitch in the gloom. “Don’t think so,” Drummond answered. " "Arm yourself with that ruffian's weapons," replied Jack, "and let us search for her. She always managed to get back to the bungalow before he did. " The girl's eyes filled. "Oh! nothin' partickler—mere curossity," replied Terence. "I have dreamed that I shall see him before I die," she rejoined. ” The talk became more and more inconclusive and exhausting. It isn’t sentiment but it’s horse sense.
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