‘Do you know, Mademoiselle Charvill, you are a thought too clever for your own good. A dark mass of wreckage, over which hung a slight mist of vapour, lay half in the ditch, half across the hedge, close under a tree from the trunk of which the bark had been torn and stripped. "I don't exactly know the rights of that affair," rejoined Griffin, with some curiosity. Never before had he seen a man like Enschede nor heard a voice like Ruth's.
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