The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. ‘Oh, peste,’ she cried out in distressed tones. "Vill this do?" demanded the constable, taking the candle from the lantern, the better to display the narrow limits of the hole. Once or twice she commented upon it, but she knew that it was resultant of his fear of her impending departure. It was below consciousness, elusive; so he sent out a call to his friend, defensively.
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