"See the devil!—not I," cried Wood impatiently. She pulled the door so that it was not quite to, and held out her hand, palm up. The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. No work that offered was at all of the quality she had vaguely postulated for herself. It was a night well-fitted to their enterprise, calm, still, and profoundly dark. ‘Can’t see a thing. " "Come, jump up," cried Blueskin, mounting his steed, "and I'll soon wisk you to town.
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