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. She opened it and drew out a letter, and folded within it were the notes she had sent off to Ramage that day. Books were always sliding and slipping, clumsy objects to hold. “His love-making,” she remarked, “struck me as unconvincing. Amongst others who attended the sad ceremony was Mr.
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