‘Your wife?’ ‘My wife,’ he repeated, rising also, his smile mocking her. 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. ” “Fine. What'll we call him—Rollo?"—ironically. Her own pack was so light that she left it in the locker.
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