She became angry with herself. But indeed that is not at all a good description of her attitude. This was number 13, Montague Street, familiarly spoken of in the neighbourhood as “White’s. She climbed slowly towards it, keeping close to the hedge side, fragrant with wild roses, and holding her skirts high above the dew-laden grass. He took a handful of almonds and raisins that she held out to him—for both these young people had given up the practice of going out for luncheon—and kept her hand for a moment to kiss her finger-tips. " The words were scarcely pronounced, when Rowland disappeared. "The blood that has been spilt is that of his wife.
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