“I think we have,” he answered, gravely, and took her in his arms, and smoothed her hair from her forehead, and very tenderly kissed her lips. The evenings were dulcet and soft. Cheveney was looking after her, I think, then. He stooped to recover it, and his face was hidden. Until the age of five she adored him. The petals have fallen—the red petals we loved so. She fought him with tooth and nail. They were only passers-by.
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