"Well—well," grumbled Jonathan, "I suppose I must be content. “Please don’t,” she said. As to his mother, I've no pity for her. She was carefree. Forgive me. "Red apples and snow!" she sent back at him, her face suddenly transfixed by some inner glory. Most of the vessels lying in the river were driven from their moorings, dashed tumultuously against each other, or blown ashore. And yet to Spurlock it was only the title of a story he would some day write.
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