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"H'm," said Mr. Polly, trying to keep things light. "We'll consider
your suggestions."
"You better," said Uncle Jim, and suddenly, noiselessly, was going.
His whispering voice sank until Mr. Polly could hear only the dim
fragments of sentences. "Orrible things to you--'orrible things....
Kick yer ugly.... Cut yer--liver out... spread it all about, I
will.... Outing doos. See? I don't care a dead rat one way or the
uvver."
And with a curious twisting gesture of the arm Uncle Jim receded until
his face was a still, dim thing that watched, and the black shadows of
the hedge seemed to have swallowed up his body altogether.
VII
Next morning about half-past ten Mr. Polly found himself seated under
a clump of fir trees by the roadside and about three miles and a half
from the Potwell Inn. He was by no means sure whether he was taking a
walk to clear his mind or leaving that threat-marred Paradise for good
and all. His reason pointed a lean, unhesitating finger along the
latter course.
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