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. To Spurlock's observing eye, Enschede's wrinkles multiplied and the folds in his clothes. “You know nothing about the stage. “You seem to be taking our little joke more seriously than it deserves, Ferringhall,” he remarked.
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