Her eyes were insane with rage, crusted with yellow and green, only beginning to heal from her long sojourn underground. But some day she would find a place to love: there would be rosy apples on the boughs, and there would be flurries of snow blowing into her face. . ’ ‘By all means,’ agreed Lucy at once, and ignoring the automatic protest that issued from Roding’s lips, she threw a command over her shoulder as she turned to go. Stimulated by the promise of something handsome to drink, the man acquitted himself to admiration in the management of his lazy cattle. She tried for her usual confident tone, but only succeeded in sounding gruff, even to her own ears.
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