She walked down the station approach, past the neat, obtrusive offices of the coal merchant and the house agent, and so to the wicket-gate by the butcher’s shop that led to the field path to her home. She gloried in it: he needed her. "Hold!" cried Kneebone, flinging down the packets; "they are nothing to me. “I’ll get dressed. She wished her father and aunt would not enjoy their dinner with such quiet determination. Melusine recognised the burly form of Captain Roding’s sergeant. Escape was now impossible.
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