"She's glorious!" He knew that he must hoodwink this keeneyed Scot, even as he must hoodwink everybody: publicly, the devoted husband; privately, the celibate. But some day she would find a place to love: there would be rosy apples on the boughs, and there would be flurries of snow blowing into her face. ’ ‘Je m’en moque. "Will that do?" he added, returning it.
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