She walked down the station approach, past the neat, obtrusive offices of the coal merchant and the house agent, and so to the wicket-gate by the butcher’s shop that led to the field path to her home. But I give you this warning, and let it sink in. The robbers proceeded singly, and kept on the grass skirting the road, so that no noise was made by their horses' feet. “They might do you good,” she remarked. What could I do at home? The other’s a crumple-up—just surrender.
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