Ennison roused himself with an effort, took a long drink from his whisky and soda, and lit a cigarette. She came in while he was still in the throes, conviction battling with commonsense, his own apprehension. ‘I cannot possibly shoot a lady, you know. “I’ll run, too,” she volunteered. "A hell of a muddle! But all the talk in the world can't undo it. "You have lived over here?"—astonished. She thought of how tired she was, how exhausted, how hungry.
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