Labels:text | screenshot | font | yellow OCR: 30 "Closer to seventy-five." Intending to treat the phenomena as a seasoned journalist should, he was finding professional detachment an effort. The flattened crop glowed golden in the early evening sun, and in the distance, cut into the chalk of Bratton Down was the famous White Horse. The dual sight was mesmerising. Squeezing through a gap in the hedge he followed Priska down the slight incline to the field's edge. "Come on, let's go in." "Hold it." Alan verbally restrained his excited colleague. "We'd better stay put, at least for now. We haven't got the farmer's permission, and the local police might not be finished. Remember, this is the scene of a suspicious death." "There's no tape, or Keep Out notices." Priska complained. "Even so, I don't think we should take that as an open invit ...
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