When he came to a certain sentence in Brendon’s letter he stopped short and looked up at her. The room was worse than pokey, it was shabby; and the view from the window, of chimney pots and slate roofs, wholly uninspiring. “I’ll go,” she vowed to the night, “or I’ll die!” She made plans and estimated means and resources. The air was sweet with the perfume of flowers, and the melody of murmuring insects, the blue sky was cloudless, the heat of the sun was tempered by the heather-scented west wind.
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