167 “True love is forever, isn’t it?” It was something a child would say, a phrase she had seen scratched on bathroom walls and maple trees, but it made her sad. ‘Trespasses,’ supplied Gerald. This left Spurlock alone. . He was a little impressed by Ann Veronica’s metaphor of the string, which, indeed, she owed to Hetty Widgett. Her hair was of the darkest brown, and finest texture; and, when unloosed, hung down to her heels. Mr. I’ve made up my mind.
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