He glanced downwards at the impetuous torrent, which he could perceive shooting past him with lightning swiftness in the gloom. ‘Parbleu, I hope that I do not have many more times to come in this way to the house,’ she muttered fretfully. Brendon. Her hair is like, white blonde, but trust me, it’s not her natural color. His was the Latin turn of thinking; he had fallen in love at thirteen, and he was still capable—he prided himself—of falling in love.
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