There were the burnt papers still in the grate. “We will take it then,” he said, “that you have refused or ignored one request I have made you this morning. Do you remember when we went right away, Nigel, and forgot everything? We went down the river past Veraz, and the larks were singing all over those deep brown fields, and the river further on wound its way like a coil of silver across the rich meadowland, and along the hillside vineyards. It was a motor accident—a fatal motor accident the evening papers called it. You don't know what you have got; I do.
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