It was astonishing how often this picture returned: cold rosy apples and flurries of snow. By this time, she had so far succeeded in calming herself, that she answered the greetings of the neighbours whom she encountered on her way to the sacred edifice—if sorrowfully, still composedly. At this time of day the priest would be at his apartments in Brewer Street, a short walk away from Golden Square which the building overlooked. "I can't help thinking of it, Sir," answered the widow. So she built a shrine. ‘So yours is the rattling tongue, is it, young madam?’ ‘I should say so.
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