Besides, I'm afraid her simple honesty will spoil any invented yarn. “What are you doing?” he asked. The pearls were really yours?" "They were left to me by my mother. Behind the Avenue was a little hill, and an iron-fenced path went over the crest of this to a stile under an elm-tree, and forked there, with one branch going back into the Avenue again. It engulfed them in black, white, and gray.
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