I suppose I ought to have been a man. The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. ’ He flushed. Winifred Wood was now in her twentieth year. You can come back for these, for you’ll carry him to the gatehouse, that’s what you’ll do. He saw, without any particular regret, that this year he would have to forego the junket; but there would be ample compensation in the study of these queer youngsters.
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