Its smooth surface soothed her nerves. "Had I not been the guilty wretch I am," he cried, bursting into an agony of tears, "she would never have died thus. She made herself serenely unaware of his existence, though it may be it was his presence that sent her by the field detour instead of by the direct path up the Avenue. The emerald wings, slashed with scarlet and yellow, wheeling and swooping about her head, there among the wild plantain. “That is my dream of you,” said Manning, warming. Maybe it’s his loss.
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