Ann Veronica wondered what her father would do if she were to tell him the full story of her relations with Ramage. McClintock watched her interestedly until her golden head vanished below; then, with tolerant pity, he looked down at Spurlock, who had closed his eyes. Me—I’m nothing but a country wench, and one who went to the bad. It was astonishing how often this picture returned: cold rosy apples and flurries of snow.
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