Ann Veronica’s desire to laugh unrestrainedly was checked by the tremendous earnestness of his expression. ‘Of course she don’t understand,’ snapped Charvill irascibly. “You, anyhow, don’t deserve it,” he said. “Kick aht at ‘em!” though, indeed, she went now with Christian meekness, resenting only the thrusting policemen’s hands. She was clad in fresh linen, but still wore the riding-habit she had appropriated, having sponged out the spots of blood late last night and left it to dry in the kitchens. ‘How did you know that Mary was his daughter?’ Gerald hesitated. A distant suggestion of chalets and a glimpse of the road set them talking for a time of the world they had left behind. I know the Dutch. JACK SHEPPARD.
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