The arrival of the cart at the end of Field Lane, appeared the signal for an attempt at rescue. “For one thing, Anna,” she remarked, “we had not the slightest idea that you had left, or were leaving Paris. “No, Lucy, because Satan does not exist. She walked down the station approach, past the neat, obtrusive offices of the coal merchant and the house agent, and so to the wicket-gate by the butcher’s shop that led to the field path to her home. “Let us sit down for a moment,” he had said. Major said you’d gorn.
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