‘Well, nothing,’ uttered her betrothed crossly, before Gerald could answer. A crutch, with a silver handle, stood by her side, proving the state of extreme debility to which she was reduced. A fire enveloped her, a fire which was strangely healing, filling her heart with warmth, blotting out the menace of the world. I’ve a dread of love dropping its petals, becoming mean and ugly. I tried painting and couldn’t get on. “Both!” said Ann Veronica. But I’d have done it without, though it weren’t my place. It ran in rivulets down her face, penetrating her hood and the thick quilting of her coat.
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