“But I—I went to Nigel Ennison for help. She savored the sweetness of his lips, all of his great youth and passion and longed for his innocence, his complete lack of the knowledge of terrible things. This path, bordered on each side by high privet hedges of the most beautiful green, soon brought them to a stile. “But—” The long inconsecutive conversation by that time was getting on her nerves.
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