“I thought that I heard a groan,” Anna whispered. It was the end, she told herself, fiercely. He regarded that perennial miracle of pinning with wrathful eyes. Wood strained his eyes to catch a glimpse of the flying skiff. Past her shot the little old lady in the bonnet, running incredibly fast, but otherwise still alertly respectable, and she was making a strange threatening sound as she ran, such as one would use in driving ducks out of a garden—“B-rr-r-r-r—!” and pawing with black-gloved hands.
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