“And somehow or other,” she added, after a long interval, “I must pay Mr. ” She shook her head, snapping out of her reverie. Forgive me. But not a word to him of Lady Trafford's absence—mind that. 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. Her hair is like, white blonde, but trust me, it’s not her natural color.
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