. The girl was like some north-country woodland pool, penetrated by a single shaft of sunlight—beautifully clear in one spot and mysteriously obscured elsewhere. Chapter XXX SIR JOHN’S NECKTIE Sir John, in a quiet dark travelling suit, was sitting in a pokey little room writing letters. You are wedged in amongst a crowd, perhaps in the promenade, you lean over the back, you are almost out of sight. Vorsack looked pale and pink. .
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