It cuts. She walked down the station approach, past the neat, obtrusive offices of the coal merchant and the house agent, and so to the wicket-gate by the butcher’s shop that led to the field path to her home. “Well,” he said at last slowly, “I’ll pay it. "Close the wicket, Austin," vociferated Ireton, in an authoritative tone. He found himself growing hoarse yelling over the music, but it also situated him to lean towards her to put his hand on her ear to aid her hearing. ‘Let’s check the rest of it and then I suppose we will have to break in.
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