That was the inconvenience of it; her head was swimming. “He is not—I don’t like him. At the back of the house, on a bank, rose an old-fashioned terrace-garden, full of apple-trees and other fruittrees in blossom, and lively with the delicious verdure of early spring. “Hey,” he said, his eyes slowly adjusting to the soft blackness. Something forbade him to draw her toward him and seal the compact with a kiss.
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