She could visualize the picture she had presented, particularly the battered papier-mâché kitbag at her feet. For a time her efforts to achieve a comprehensive concentration were dispersed by the passage of the village street of Caddington, the passing of a goggled car-load of motorists, and the struggles of a stable lad mounted on one recalcitrant horse and leading another. The morning swims in the lagoon had thickened the red corpuscle. Ennison seemed to feel already the shadow of tragedy approaching. She had no place she loved. If this girl hadn't busted into the game, Spurlock would still be at the hotel. Her nerves were shattered, her senses dazed by this unexpected shock. Ann Veronica readjusted her chin on her hand. You are my prisoner, murderer.
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