“This isn’t furtive,” said Ann Veronica. I feel almost inclined to regret the fact. ‘Parbleu, that pig, he will ruin all. Behind the Avenue was a little hill, and an iron-fenced path went over the crest of this to a stile under an elm-tree, and forked there, with one branch going back into the Avenue again. The girl was like some north-country woodland pool, penetrated by a single shaft of sunlight—beautifully clear in one spot and mysteriously obscured elsewhere. He waved a cordial goodbye.
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