‘And if it was not for that imbecile of a Gérard, who has put his soldiers to watch for me, it would not need that I make it. "Red apples and snow!" she sent back at him, her face suddenly transfixed by some inner glory. The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. I’m taking no chances. But how far could he fly on a few hundred? True, he might find a job somewhere; but every footstep from behind…! "Who is she? Where does she come from?" "You mean Miss Enschede?" "Yes. Yet she took with her an uneasy consciousness that in this affair might lie the germs of future trouble.
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