‘I don’t want a hue and cry after me, I thank you. Anna, quitting her chair, dropped on her knees by her sister’s side and took her hand. "Bolt the wicket!" shouted Ireton, who, with the others, had been not a little entertained by the gallant turnkey's discomfiture. She felt surges of longing escape every corner of her flesh. “Come,” he said, “you can’t be meaning to bury yourself. The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting.
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