"If I thought he lived——" observed Wood. Then she went back and mixed up the sheets in a search for particular passages. “Dear John,” she whispered. It was from Brendon. ” She closed her mouth. Past her shot the little old lady in the bonnet, running incredibly fast, but otherwise still alertly respectable, and she was making a strange threatening sound as she ran, such as one would use in driving ducks out of a garden—“B-rr-r-r-r—!” and pawing with black-gloved hands.
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