"Red apples and snow!" he repeated. A wife formed part of his scheme of life, for several years he had been secretly but assiduously looking for her. She would then hear his feet pounding up the steps and he would burst into whatever room she was sitting in and say, “There she is! My wife! Hiding her beauty from the world!” He would then run to her, grab her book or embroidery and unceremoniously toss them to the floor. Died short, I suppose, and the girls had to shift for themselves.
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