His hair had begun to gray, his belly had just begun to round. 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. You might even tire of me by then, you know. “It’s because I mean to send it back altogether,” she said.
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