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. "You'll not forget the thousand, Sir Rowland—short accounts, you know. He saluted awkwardly. The ruffled chemise-front under the wide lapels of her waistcoat and jacket no longer quivered, and her pose, with the full cloth petticoat spreading about her, was relaxed.
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