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. Straitened circumstances would not have mattered; a mother would have managed somehow. Holcroft, we may have been mistaken. “You’re not a virgin, are you?” It was as much an accusation as a question.
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