” “Then there is also,” Anna remarked, “a Montague Hill who is very much alive. The latter looked very pale, either from the effect of his wound, which was not yet entirely healed, or from suppressed emotion,—partly, perhaps, from both causes,—and wore his left arm in a sling. “I can’t conceive what you want. ‘Ain’t my place, I know that. He held her hand in his, cupped together like a pair of shells for the rest of the hour. White was scattered across the long stretches of pine trees and corn fields.
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