Just as he had arrived at the mouth of the drain, and Jack felt certain he must be discovered, a loud shout was raised from the further end of the field that the fugitive was caught. “It’s no sort of good, Ann Veronica, pretending one does believe when one doesn’t. A girl—at my age—is grown-up. In the distance a barrel-organ was grinding out a pot pourri of popular airs. Not that he deliberately courted danger; it was rather the searcher, seeking analysis, the why and wherefore of this or that invading emotion. The Ragged Edge.
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