She sat in a chair in the parlour and regarded the darkening sky through the small casement window. " "Of course," rejoined Kneebone, a little maliciously, "but that's easily accounted for. “Go on,” he said. Anyhow, she’s disappeared for some reason or other. 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.
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