Stupid pratt, he thought, listening for a second to the splendid row. Nearby, Tracey was washing The Bull’s tail. “Rupert!” screamed Helen. ”“I don’t care,” screamed Fen, picking up Revenge as he stumbled over a rocky piece of ground, galloping on and on until she’d put four or five miles between herself and the Mill House.
Fen gave a whimper and fled. Then she felt a warm hand on her back. Tory sat down, the furry moquette of the bench seat scratching her thighs. The next jump was almost as unhappy.
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