A home MAY be a sort of cage, but still—it’s a home. 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. ‘But on the off chance—slim, I grant you —that there is a spy down there, I don’t want to miss the fun.
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