Would she ever find it? Sighing, she opened the door to the next room, and drew back the drapes. F. There was the cottage she had inhabited for so many years,—in those fields she had rambled,—at that church she had prayed. Somehow her walk home with him had been transmogrified into a melodramatic rejection, a slamming. A child—as innocent as a child! Nothing about life; bemused by the fairy stories you writers call novels! I don't know what you have done; I don't care. What were you doing at Remenham House? I can’t puzzle that bit out. Vee’s all right.
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