The weed was all right. “Don’t be too sure of that,” she answered enigmatically. “I won’t have you quarrelling and crying in the Avenue,” he said. The more haste, the worse speed—better the feet slip than the tongue. They were on their way back home, or so she had thought. The evening breeze came; the bamboo shades on the veranda clicked and rasped; the loose edges of the manuscript curled. " "It came from Lady Trafford's jewel-box.
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