But some day she would find a place to love: there would be rosy apples on the boughs, and there would be flurries of snow blowing into her face. It would not have been for her an anomaly to read a love story in which there were no kisses. The Widgetts talked with a remarkable absence of external coverings; the Palsworthys found all the meanings of life on its surfaces. A narrow entry, formed by two low walls, communicated with the main thoroughfare; and in this passage, under the cover of a penthouse, stood Wood, with his little burthen, to whom we shall now return. ‘You ought to be glad someone cares enough about your wretched little neck to try and save it.
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