Then he hovered undecidedly for some seconds with his hands in his pockets and his mouth puckered to a whistle before he turned to go home by the Avenue. I’ve a dread of love dropping its petals, becoming mean and ugly. ’ ‘You traitor, Gerald,’ laughed Lucilla, her yellow curls bouncing under a huge straw bonnet all over flowers. What lends a tragic mockery to all these tender traps of hers was that she was within lawful bounds. It must be somewhere hereabouts. .
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