I——” The door was thrown open. One might have said that these trees grieved for their native soil; and, grieving, refused to bear. ‘Oh, Marthe,’ she groaned, using in her accustomed way the French version of her nurse’s name, ‘that pig is going to monsieur le baron. The arrangement had been made by the town matchmaker, a frightening old oak of a man. “Oh, Lord!” she said, discovering what she was up to, and dropped lightly from the fence upon the turf and went on her way toward the crest.
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