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Yet she took with her an uneasy consciousness that in this affair might lie the germs of future trouble. She saw marks in the dirt where he had been pacing. He looked just like John Wayne in a cowboy movie, his eyes narrow and squinting, except his hair was long, unruly, and jet black. It seemed as if all the precautions previously taken were here accumulated. That is what they call these aristocratic refugees, the English. If the Wastrel had not turned the instant he did, the ball would have missed him; as it was he turned directly into its path. ” She peered at him through the semi-blackness. She had a bittersweet fragrance, like dusty books and honeysuckle. “You were going to answer it?” “Certainly not!” she said deliberately. Let me engage myself.

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