It was a motor accident—a fatal motor accident the evening papers called it. Already the warm sun was drawing from the pines their delicious odour. “I won’t pretend,” he said, “that this is an accident. \"Some of them don't smell so good. I shall take to him as nat'ral as if he were my own flesh and blood afore long. Yet you catch her eye—you can’t seem to escape from it. The door opened.
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