" Some order. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. I don’t see how they can be. 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. Then the bridge had arched gateways, bristling with spikes, and garnished (as all ancient gateways ought to be) with the heads of traitors. ‘You have a knack of saying just the wrong thing. She had removed her hat and utterly disarranged her already unruly black locks by running agitated fingers through them. The cart, meantime, had approached the fatal tree.
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