Behind the Avenue was a little hill, and an iron-fenced path went over the crest of this to a stile under an elm-tree, and forked there, with one branch going back into the Avenue again. Perhaps I've been mad all these years; I don't know. She read beautifully because the fixed form of the poem signified nothing. She had no intention whatsoever of spending her life in a convent, but that was not his affair. Why should they be? She and Ramage were friends, very good friends. So I come round the other way and—Lordy, miss, I’m that sorry I made a mull of it. Gerald lifted an eyebrow.
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