Finding, however, that she could
not rid herself of Forrester by the same methods which had proved easily
successful with the stable lads at White Windows, she uttered a squeal of
rage, laid back her ears, and bolted hell-for-leather across the downs.
This proved altogether too much for Dick Turpin's composure. He was seized
with a spirited desire to go and do likewise, and for a moment or two Ann
had her hands full. Gradually, however, she steadied his first wild rush
to a gallop, then to a canter, and finally, as he eased into a trot, she
dared to direct her attention elsewhere and look round to discover what had
become of Brett.
She caught her breath with a gasp of dismay. Far ahead she could see the
bay mare streaking across the downs, with Brett still square in the saddle,
headed straight for the edge of the cliffs. From the way she tore along Ann
knew she must be practically out of hand, and, if Brett were unable to turn
her, the next few minutes would see horse and rider leap into space, to
fall headlong down on to the rocks two hundred feet below.
Instinctively she urged her cob in pursuit, though subconsciously aware of
the utter futility of it--of her absolute helplessness to avert disaster.
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