The Place of the Lion

The Place of the Lion

The Place of the Lion

The Place of the Lion


From the top of the bank, behind a sparse hedge of thorn, the lioness stared at the Hertfordshire road. She moved her head from side to side, then suddenly she became rigid as if she had scented prey or enemy; she crouched lower, her body trembling, her tail swishing, but she made no sound.

Almost a mile away Quentin Sabot jumped from the gate on which he had been sitting and looked at his wristwatch.

"I don't see much sign of this bus of yours," he said, glancing along the road.

Anthony Durrant looked in the same direction. "Shall we wander along and meet it?"

"Or go on and let it catch us up?" Quentin suggested. "After all, that's our direction."

"The chief use of the material world," Anthony said, still sitting on the gate, "is that one can, just occasionally, say that with truth. Yes, let's." He got down leisurely and . . .

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