"I'm afraid we'll have to dig into his trunk," he said. 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. She mentioned, with familiar respect, Christ and Buddha and Shelley and Nietzsche and Plato. “I’ve tried to make words tell it. As if he read her thought, he spoke it aloud. He is an awfully good sort— and now he has come to me to help him if I can. ‘The gatehouse? But why must you move him at all?’ ‘Listen, missie.
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