The watcher's intake of breath was sibilant. He was just getting cross about your being late for dinner—you know his way—when it came. She fixed her eyes upon it and ran, keeping always as far as possible in the shadow of the hedge, gazing fearfully every now and then down along the valley for the white smoke of the train. “And you must please not look at me as though I were an executioner,” she declared lightly. I love the soles of your feet.
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