But then Lady Palsworthy had never seen Ann Veronica running like the wind at hockey. 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. Wood, in his Sunday habiliments and Sunday buckle. "Your voice seems familiar to me—and—but I'm getting a little deaf—and my eyes don't serve me quite so well as they used to do, especially by this light.
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