She crouched beneath a stump, her extremities twitching as the sun set orange and blue beyond the lace of iron-black trees. Do you think we could manage that old clothesman between us, if we got out of this box?" "I'd manage him myself, if my arms were free," replied Thames, boldly. The wastrel, the ne'er-do-well, who went mostly nobly to a fine end. ’ She frowned suddenly.
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