As he entered the shop, a tall portly personage advanced to meet him, whom he at once recognised as the present proprietor. She directed him to an old part of the highway, a featureless stretch of old farmhouses capped in snow, with the occasional working silo. Then I assumed a rather portentous manner to prepare him. But he was a thief, a fugitive from justice. The inn was a military haunt. “It is so difficult,” she murmured, “so impossible to explain.
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