"I do," replied Kneebone. His destination was the New Mint. And it’s no use thinking he’d stop her. “I am under police surveillance,” she said. A little inn flying a Swiss flag nestles under a great rock, and there they put aside their knapsacks and lunched and rested in the mid-day shadow of the gorge and the scent of resin. Kneebone helped to the pigeon-pie; while Thames unwired and uncorked a bottle of stout Carnarvonshire ale. That is quite as far as I mean to tempt Providence to-night.
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