Behind the Avenue was a little hill, and an iron-fenced path went over the crest of this to a stile under an elm-tree, and forked there, with one branch going back into the Avenue again. Ten thousand islands, and each one good for a night's rest. It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. Upon this, Jack earnestly and eloquently addressed himself to the bench, and besought that a petition which he had prepared to be laid before the King might be read. John turned toward the short staircase as she alit upon the first creaky step. Damn! I’ve splashed.
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