The houses loomed progressively larger as one strode up the block, growing from ranch to two-story, from squat 1950's modern to stately 1890's palace. She would be elemental; there would be in her somewhere the sleeping tigress. "No Blueskin, I perceive, Sir," he observed, in a deferential tone, as Wild entered the Lodge. He then mounted the jaded hack, which had long since regained its legs, and was quietly browsing the grass at the road-side, and, striking spurs into its side, rode off. And she buried herself beneath the straw, which she tossed above her head with the wildest gestures. Yes, I think we have thoroughly thrashed that one out.
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