Eyebrows knitting, she looked towards the ground a few feet away from him, guiltily. None saw, though all felt, his presence, and heard the thunder of his voice. But most of all, I wanted to love. Teenage boys never change, she thought to herself. The drawers at the moment were too busy to attend to her, and she would have seized the opportunity of examining, unperceived, the assemblage within, through a little curtained window that overlooked the adjoining chamber, if an impediment had not existed in the shape of Baptist Kettleby, whose portly person entirely obscured the view. Already the warm sun was drawing from the pines their delicious odour. “Look here, Ann Veronica,” he began.
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