A dark mass of wreckage, over which hung a slight mist of vapour, lay half in the ditch, half across the hedge, close under a tree from the trunk of which the bark had been torn and stripped. “I’d never have a day of peace again, John. And they’ll shut the gates presently. And yet to Spurlock it was only the title of a story he would some day write. Then a roar of hisses.
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