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. Then I came to London and tried almost everything—all failures. It was an impulse. See paragraph 1. The flowers and turf, a wild strawberry, a rare butterfly, and suchlike little intimate things had become more interesting than mountains. ’ ‘I was called in, ma’am, to catch a French spy—at least, that is what Pottiswick thought.
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