” “The truth,” she murmured, with her eyes fixed upon him. ‘Ah, yes? To what do I pretend?’ ‘That,’ Gerald said regretfully, ‘I have not yet been able to fathom. 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. They were exquisite. Battle, murder, and sudden death—and an old chap like McClintock tuning his piano in the midst of it.
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