You mustn't go dressing up Tom, Dick, and Harry in Henry Esmond's ruffles. There was the cottage she had inhabited for so many years,—in those fields she had rambled,—at that church she had prayed. The gardens were tidy and geometric, each avenue with a different purpose: flowers for cutting, herbs, brightly colored vegetables. If only monsieur le baron had said nothing, or perhaps instead accepted the couple as the Valades and agreed to help them.
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