She had removed her hat and utterly disarranged her already unruly black locks by running agitated fingers through them. She drank her glass of wine, however, and clanked glasses good-naturedly with Mr. “I may go to Hatton House later, but you needn’t wait. It was astonishing how often this picture returned: cold rosy apples and flurries of snow. She felt that she became more familiar with the floor during the time that he stayed than with any particular person.
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