‘By traitors I am surrounded!’ ‘Stop talking utter twaddle,’ ordered Roding, marching up to the desk. The brown house, almost exactly the same as the Beck’s, turned black as pitch in the gloom. This double buffetting had sharpened her shrewdness and insight. Behind the Avenue was a little hill, and an iron-fenced path went over the crest of this to a stile under an elm-tree, and forked there, with one branch going back into the Avenue again.
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