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. McClintock wrote me about you; but all I needed was the sight of your face as it was a moment gone. And not a worthy tome in sight. To-morrow, we'll go to the Fleet and get spliced.
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