But since you assure me you didn't write the letters, and Mr. ’ ‘Will you indeed? Truly?’ His smile held so much tenderness, she was tempted to surrender at once. How the deuce, though, am I going to account for her? People will be asking questions when they see her; and if I tell the truth, they'll start to snubbing her. 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.
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