His manner, however, was as stern and haughty as ever, and his glances retained their accustomed fire. Quilt, who was an ardent lover of mischief, could not help laughing most heartily at the rueful appearance of these personages. But some day she would find a place to love: there would be rosy apples on the boughs, and there would be flurries of snow blowing into her face. ” “Lady Ferringhall! Anna!” he exclaimed.
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