She was sorry to find Ramage a little disposed to be melancholy. Set yourself to find it out, if you will—but if you do, never dare to call yourself my friend again. “I’m sorry, ma’am, to seem the cause of any disturbance, but this,” he pointed to Anna, “is my wife. Plain, wide-mouthed, freckled, and ugly, she was an instantly jealous creature, her saving grace that she took no pains to mask her extreme dislike 47 of petite, pretty girls. Oh, the scent of the flowers that day, the delicious quiet, the swallows that dived before us in the river. Nervously he pulled alongside the dilapidated oncewhite farmhouse. A fresh cool breeze blew in their faces. .
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