"Where is it?" "Are you the mother of this child?" inquired the person who had first spoken, addressing Mrs. Ramage. “I will make all things possible. He let go of the girl’s arm. But some day she would find a place to love: there would be rosy apples on the boughs, and there would be flurries of snow blowing into her face. “It is not an easy matter,” he said, “for me to offer you an altogether adequate explanation. But I don’t want to.
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