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. ‘Jacques! This—this bête he attacks me, and you stand there and you do nothing. “Would YOU like us—if some one told you the bare outline of our story?— and what we are doing?” “I shouldn’t mind,” said Ann Veronica. “I am bored,” she said abruptly. It is the bottom of the cup, where all the dregs appear to settle.
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