“I do hope that I shall be able to make it up to you. A ragged gray moustache drooped from the corners of his mouth and a ragged wisp of whisker hung from his chin. 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. " "Save us!" exclaimed Wood.
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