For a time her efforts to achieve a comprehensive concentration were dispersed by the passage of the village street of Caddington, the passing of a goggled car-load of motorists, and the struggles of a stable lad mounted on one recalcitrant horse and leading another. “For Heaven’s sake, Dunster, don’t let her out of the carriage, or hansom, or whatever she came in. ‘Ah, there is the little menace itself,’ he drawled, recovering some of his own sangfroid. The discussion wandered, and was punctuated with bread and butter. “Very funny. “Through there,” he said, and pointed with the pamphlet he was carrying. He's down in Patagonia somewhere. Apparently she was always doomed to weep when she talked to her father. I knew it.
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