Suddenly she had become afraid. “I suppose,” said her father, “I have read at least half the novels that have been at all successful during the last twenty years. It was if the world had blinked out for a moment. He was waiting in the outer hall as she tiptoed in. A dark mass of wreckage, over which hung a slight mist of vapour, lay half in the ditch, half across the hedge, close under a tree from the trunk of which the bark had been torn and stripped.
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