They walked across a moat of pea gravel that crunched like noisy cereal under their feet. In one grave, mind. As the Wastrel rushed, Spurlock sidestepped, swept the ball into his hand, set himself and threw it. “Yes, I see that. The cart, meantime, had approached the fatal tree. Her courage and her presence of mind had alike deserted her. It was astonishing how often this picture returned: cold rosy apples and flurries of snow.
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