My foster mother, Janine, wasn’t much fatter. It was common name, so I was thrown off the scent. Below her stretched a valley of rich meadowland, of yellow cornfields, and beyond moorland hillside glorious with purple heather and golden gorse. But they climbed more than he had intended because Ann Veronica proved rather a good climber, steadyheaded and plucky, rather daring, but quite willing to be cautious at his command.
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