The girl stood with her hands behind her back, sulky, resolute, and intelligent, a strand of her black hair over one eye and looking more than usually delicate-featured, and more than ever like an obdurate child. He—” “Here they are!” said Ann Veronica as the bell sounded. “I don’t want to take up your time. The cloth nearly touches the floor. The farmer was a widow who was slightly famous around town for his prize cows and slightly more famous for his good looks. “It’s the stir of spring,” he said. Small blame to her. The birds were singing blithely amid the trees,—the lowing of the cows resounded from the yard,—a delicious perfume from the garden was wafted through the open window,—at a distance, the church-bells of Willesden were heard tolling for evening service. ‘Yes, I know. “You’ve no right to badger me like this, Veronica,” he said. ‘Sir?’ enquired the lad. I am your servitor. “It isn’t only the dance,” she said.
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