Winifred Wood was now in her twentieth year. She was tired, hungry—and thus somewhat impatient for the food Mrs Ibstock might bring—and downcast. Here he was preparing to leap over the hedge into the fields on the left, when he was intercepted by two horsemen, who, hearing the shouts, rode up and struck at him with the butt-ends of their heavy riding-whips. I can’t tell anyone certain things about my life. But what did he know beyond these facts? Nothing, clearly.
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