She could no longer wait. Either you have had to love people or hate them—which is a sort of love, too, in its way—to get anything out of them. “I don’t believe there is one. It is the horse of the priest, you understand, and—and he does not know that I have borrowed it. Wood, popping her head through the window. The whole affair interested him deeply. Coldly she spoke, in a distinctly accented voice.
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