Before he could draw in the rein, his steed—startled apparently by some object undistinguishable by the rider,—swerved with such suddenness as to unseat him, and precipitate him on the ground. Lucy dug out an old light gray cotton miniskirt that had shrunk on Shari in the wash. "You know what I mean," said the trader, gravely. The detective backed out slowly and closed the door without sound. She jumped up at once, caught up a leather clutch containing notebooks, a fat textbook, and a chocolate-and-yellow-covered pamphlet, and leaped neatly from the carriage, only to discover that the train was slowing down and that she had to traverse the full length of the platform past it again as the result of her precipitation. “Do you think he’s still around?” She paused thoughtfully. A paralyzing horror was upon her. “Julian, I don’t know how to put this. He got out in much the same way from the Gatehouse,—stole the keys, and passed through a room where I was sitting half-asleep in a chair. Loneliness—something that was almost physical: as if the vitality had been taken out of the air she breathed. “Fearful old fogey! I can’t imagine any sister of yours putting up with him for a moment.
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