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. “It’s like Troy!” said a voice of rapture. “You were never born,” he declared, “to follow the well worn roads. ‘I beg your pardon?’ said Gerald. She crouched beneath a stump, her extremities twitching as the sun set orange and blue beyond the lace of iron-black trees. ‘And since the entire company and Pottiswick himself were unable to find hide nor hair of the infernal French female—’ ‘English, Hilary,’ Gerald reminded him.

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