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ABSTRACT Title of Document: BRITISH MODERNIST ... - DRUM

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clutches holding their engines hard.<br />

A woman’s voice was calling out to somebody by name:<br />

‘Alick. Alick . . .’<br />

The man’s first impulse was to run up and see what it was, see<br />

if he could help. A lovers’ quarrel, a drunken lark involving a girl,<br />

possibly a genuine crime. He might be useful. Then fear warned him<br />

again to turn away. He turned at once and marched <strong>of</strong>f towards the<br />

distant main road, his heart beginning to pump hard.<br />

The thought pulsed in his head:<br />

‘I don’t want to get mixed up in anything. I must go away. I’ve<br />

got to keep clear <strong>of</strong> things.’<br />

He strode out as fast as he could. There was no thought in his<br />

head, except that he must get away.<br />

But the two cars were following him, were alongside, were<br />

pulling up two or three yards in front <strong>of</strong> him. People were getting out<br />

<strong>of</strong> them and banging the doors, from the grey car a woman and a large<br />

young man with a scar over one eye, from the other a police inspector<br />

and a constable. The man I was following strode on. He meant to<br />

ignore them. They stood in his path.<br />

The woman kept saying:<br />

‘Alick, darling. Alick . . .’<br />

It was to him that she was saying it. He must have seen that she<br />

was handsome, rather tall, and that she had tears in her eyes, but he<br />

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