She tolerated spitballs in her curly hair and had to buy a new backpack when hers was stolen. She was dressed as English girls do dress for town, without either coquetry or harshness: her collarless blouse confessed a pretty neck, her eyes were bright and steady, and her dark hair waved loosely and graciously over her ears. Just as they reached the eastern outlet of the churchyard— where the tall elms cast a pleasant shade over the rustic graves—a momentary stoppage took place. First, look at this glove. Years ago I marked out an intinerary for myself; but the trip never materialized.
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