“They ought to have been lopped in the spring. Hang the wench! Roding was right. Sheppard, raising herself, and looking at him as if her life depended upon the answer. She grasped at the right one, massaging where his grip had been and Gerald hoped he had not bruised her. I’ve a dread of love dropping its petals, becoming mean and ugly. This helped to restore Ann Veronica’s self-command.
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