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He gasped: "Then I am coming up!" Was she aghast at him? he asked himself. He stood half-checked while her steady eyes left his face, roamed from him contrasting, as ashamed he felt, the purity of the still night with the clamour of his turbulent passions and settled on an adjacent flowerbed. At last she spoke, very calmly. "There is a potting-box just there," she said.
Fletcher, as the recoil of the bell-mouthed blunderbuss he had fired hurled him prone upon the gravel; the dreadful imprecations of Bill striving to clear his leg of the potting-box through whose side it had plunged; piercing screams of Mrs. Major from a ground-floor room; shrills of alarm from Mr. Marrapit; gurr-r-ing yelps from Abiram in ecstasy of man-hunt. Rushing figures!
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