While he was straining every sinew, his foot slipped, and he fell, head foremost, into a deep trench, which he had not observed in the dark. It took all my self control not to let my hands wander. Superstition—you knock into it whichever way you turn. But how far could he fly on a few hundred? True, he might find a job somewhere; but every footstep from behind…! "Who is she? Where does she come from?" "You mean Miss Enschede?" "Yes. But he is kind of cute.
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