"Done!" cried Shotbolt. Next instant he had her immobilised, her hands behind her back, her chest crushed to his, the white veil slipping once again. 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. ‘Certainly you are imbecile. . .
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