Explore "False Evidence" by E. Phillips Oppenheim on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
It was eighteen miles from John Hilton's hut to the park gates, across a wild country, and I had had two hours' hard riding when, splashed with bog mud from head to foot, I walked into Marian's little sitting-room, which, it seemed to me, after the dark moor, had never looked so cheerful and cosy. Marian herself was there, lounging in a low wicker chair, with her fair hair scarcely so tidy as usual, and a soft, pleased light in her grey eyes, and opposite her was a visitor -- our curate. She sprang up as I entered.
"Hugh, how late you are! I waited dinner nearly two hours. Where have you been?"