Probably his first serious bout with John Barleycorn. The autumn rain had made every surface tacky, the wet seats of painted red picnic tables were avoided. “I’m sorry! Mary! Are you hurt?” “No. Have you ever heard the name of Meysey Hill?” “Meysey Hill?” He repeated it after her, and she knew at once from his tone and his quick glance into her face that the name possessed some significance for him. “I am happy. Here, Caliban, attend to the door, and keep the wicket locked till I return. They were bathing in the stream. Fortescue raised his eyebrows and assumed a light-comedy expression.
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