It is no fault of your own that you are not at this moment standing there with your head blown off. I kicked the living shit out of him. Either you have had to love people or hate them—which is a sort of love, too, in its way—to get anything out of them. ‘Yes, very rude,’ agreed the major. 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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