Behind them stalked Blueskin, enveloped in a rough great-coat, called—appropriately enough in this instance,—a wrap-rascal. "The poor things!" The manager laughed. Sebastian looked up and stood. “I should imagine,” he said, shaking out a copy of The Times, “that it is your brain which is addled. Before Jonathan followed he turned to face his assailants. “I wonder what he takes me for?” When presently she got down from the stile a certain note of internal conflict, a touch of doubt, had gone from her warm-tinted face.
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