He was conscious of a quickening of his heartbeat and the familiar rise of adrenalin that sent his senses soaring in anticipation. Mr. Sanguine they were not. F. . "Farewell!" cried Jack, embracing them. The lunches were individual affairs: sandwiches, bottled olives and jam commandeered from the Victoria. 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.
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