" "They may find me. I suppose this is the sort of damned rubbish—” “Oh! Ssh, Peter!” cried Miss Stanley. A moment before, the surface of the stream was black as ink. "What for?" rejoined Quilt, evasively. Her place was not filled; she had been simply noted as absent, and she did a comforting day of admirable dissection upon the tortoise. "Let him remain," interposed Trenchard. "Come down stairs directly, and let your mother look at your wrist.
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