The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. For he come after her, did Mr Charvill. Robbed of their prey, the fury of the mob became ungovernable. “This is all madness,” she declared wearily. ‘That there governess didn’t like it, of course, me being the lodgekeeper’s girl, and Martha just a country wench like me. She noted the dank hair on his forehead, the sweat of revolting nature. It's all your fault, you shaking coward! and, but that I feel sure you'll swing for your carelessness, I'd throw you into the well, too.
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