So, at least, thought one of two persons who were seated together in a small back-parlour of the house at Dollis Hill. She was slender, and sometimes she seemed tall, and walked and carried herself lightly and joyfully as one who commonly and habitually feels well, and sometimes she stooped a little and was preoccupied. Hilary threw up his eyes. His hug became an embrace. Meantime, a change had taken place in the weather. The young man looked at her. “It really seems as if we shall have to put down marigolds altogether next year,” Aunt Molly repeated three times, “and do away with marguerites. She yielded it without protest, as though unconsciously.
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