She spoke with a certain odd deliberation carefully chosen words which fell like drops of ice upon the man who sat listening. For what indeed does she do? A simple song, no gesture, no acting, nothing. Sheppard. He had heard this talk before. The air was sweet with the perfume of flowers, and the melody of murmuring insects, the blue sky was cloudless, the heat of the sun was tempered by the heather-scented west wind. “It may be more difficult than you think,” she said.
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