She came back with two women, one in each arm, which she threw down like sticks as she alit onto the stone causeway. ‘A spitfire, ain’t she, sir?’ Roding ignored this. At any rate, here I am, and here I shall be, twenty thousand feet above all your poison-reeking cities, up where God’s wind comes fresh from heaven, very near indeed to the untrodden snows. “If I didn’t love you better than myself,” said Capes, “I wouldn’t fence like this with you.
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