In the old days he had been something of an athlete—a runner, an oarsman, and a crack at tennis. “But what are you going to do?” asked Hetty. A dry cough's the trumpeter of death. “Round midnight, I think. Your face has flitted out of my watch-fire, and then I have been a haunted man. Give us that—” Ann Veronica came in with a certain disregard of Miss Miniver.
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