Kneebone and his Friends. I did think it could be done. They sat on a wooden bench that overlooked the less aromatic part of the lake, deeper and not as frequented by geese. Smith had never seen anything like it. He started a dozen stories, but they all ended in the waste-basket. ‘Well?’ demanded Miss Froxfield, accepting a glass of lemonade proffered by a passing lackey. ‘I have only borrowed it. Wood. And if I don’t, I go mad.
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