I suppose this is the sort of damned rubbish—” “Oh! Ssh, Peter!” cried Miss Stanley. The place was pockmarked with window-like holes everywhere—people were always 138 falling into them and breaking bones--it was for these lookouts why she had chosen it. ‘Did you see the man?’ Gerald asked. Then she sat watching the play, sometimes offering a helpful suggestion, sometimes letting her attention wander to the smoothly shining arms she had folded across her knees just below the edge of the table. Only her ungloved fingers, and the arms in their long tight sleeves as she held the heavy gun aloft, bore any sign of stiffness. "But, let that pass.
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