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. ’ ‘Yes, do. ‘One of your countrymen, perhaps?’ The girl clammed up, the moon of her white face staring up at him in the darkness. His hand fell lightly to her chest where her heart was 211 beating, almost tenderly. Cathy Beck was outraged.
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