Cocking the gun. I have written, called—of what avail is anything—against that look. This path, bordered on each side by high privet hedges of the most beautiful green, soon brought them to a stile. The doorbell tinkled and Michelle grabbed her purse and rushed down the creaky wooden stairs. It was in the quiet streets and squares toward Oxford Street that it first came into her head disagreeably that she herself was being followed. She remained for some seconds crouching at the fender, poker in hand.
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