With a rustle of her full lilac petticoats, Miss Froxfield turned back to Alderley. She was suddenly very aware of the room, the television still blaring, and the chill in the air. So she took up Stevenson and began to read aloud. “And you must please not look at me as though I were an executioner,” she declared lightly. Crossing several fields, newly mown, or filled with lines of tedded hay, she arrived, not without great exertion, at the summit of a hill. Gosse backed, not even attempting to parry so unorthodox a use of the foil. “Poor old Alice!” Her brother Roddy came to her and demanded tea, and asked her to state a case. The cloth nearly touches the floor. “Have to take your turn,” he remarked laconically. ” There was never any shortage of bad men to eat, especially with pestilence and superstition to cover their tracks.
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