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Hollo rumbled in his throat. She fixed her eyes upon it and ran, keeping always as far as possible in the shadow of the hedge, gazing fearfully every now and then down along the valley for the white smoke of the train. The lunches were individual affairs: sandwiches, bottled olives and jam commandeered from the Victoria. But her words were not addressed to Melusine. It seems only yesterday that she was running down the Avenue, all hair and legs. Then came the great day.
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