There he paused again, half turning his back and pretending to look for someone among the soldiers on the benches. A dark mass of wreckage, over which hung a slight mist of vapour, lay half in the ditch, half across the hedge, close under a tree from the trunk of which the bark had been torn and stripped. I don’t care. The fellow Kimble, to whom Gerald was indebted, was gaping. "These writer chaps are queer birds. Every one turned to her in astonishment.
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