She crouched beneath a stump, her extremities twitching as the sun set orange and blue beyond the lace of iron-black trees. You have told me that you cared. Wait, though. “I think, perhaps if you will excuse me, that we will defer the luncheon. A man's laced hat,—whether adopted from the caprice of the moment, or habitually worn, we are unable to state,—cocked knowingly on her head, harmonized with her masculine appearance. The carpenter threw himself flat upon the starling to avoid the fury of the wind. “She’s going to have some sort of meal with the Widgetts down the Avenue, and go up with them.
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