Even to my own brother—if I had one—I could not tell everything, and you, although you are so kind, you are almost a stranger, aren’t you?” “No, no!” he protested. They would arrive sometime in June. She stared out of the paned glass window, watching the trees being blown bare by the gale force. From what she could tell, he truly had convinced himself that he was in love with her, but she knew that his ardor would fade eventually inasmuch as she knew John’s would. Strangers look in and long, and neighbours are moved to envy.
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