Suddenly, she heard the crunch of new feet on the gravel. There was the same airy grace of movement, the same deep brown hair and alabaster skin. "Yes, yes," replied Edgeworth Bess. Pilgrim's Progress, The Life of Martin Luther and Alice in Wonderland (the only fairy-story she had been permitted to read) were the sum total of her library. She came quickly into the little parlour, which now seemed inordinately crowded, and coming up to Melusine, seized her hands in a warm clasp. It is the horse of the priest, you understand, and—and he does not know that I have borrowed it.
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