The sun was setting, casting long dreary shadows across deformed apple trees. She would not look at him, would not think of him; when her mind wavered, then she muttered to herself in the darkness so as to keep hold of her generalizations. ‘No, I don’t see much future in pursuing her down this passage. I can wield a quarterstaff as well as a prize-fighter, and have beaten Figg himself at the broadsword. Ah! how I wish, poor dear Sir Cecil were alive! he'd keep him in order. “I should kill you.
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