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. ‘You were supposed to be nursing him,’ Martha grumbled, ‘and helping him convalesce. She could feel Martin’s eyes boring into her as she entered the room, her own personal Farhat. A black-garbed figure crept forward, noiselessly, towards Gosse’s back. Wood. .
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