Behind the Avenue was a little hill, and an iron-fenced path went over the crest of this to a stile under an elm-tree, and forked there, with one branch going back into the Avenue again. ‘Don’t try to turn it off,’ ordered Miss Froxfield. From head to foot he was attired in the fashionable garb of the young man of the moment. There it was—to be borrowed. ‘That is the man who tries to kill me, but he wounded instead my servant.
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