” He pointed to Ennison, who in his turn looked across at Anna. ‘Brung the lantern, I did, and opened the door again in case you was ready. Ah, no, I have it wrong. She is called Madame Ibstock, you understand. 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. It was one of those old sliding trap affairs, narrow and steep of descent.
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