‘What are the chances, do you think, of that thing being already cocked?’ ‘Probably not even loaded,’ suggested Hilary hopefully. Perhaps it was loneliness. He stirred continually, thrusting his legs about and flinging his arms above his head. Crack went the whip, and away floundered the heavy vehicle through the deep ruts of the ill-kept road, or rather lane, (for it was little better,) which, then, led across Southampton Fields. “It is true. She refused to sleep in the same room with him one night, kicking him in the shins. ” He crossed his arms. She stared at his pleading face.
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