The girl was like some north-country woodland pool, penetrated by a single shaft of sunlight—beautifully clear in one spot and mysteriously obscured elsewhere. “It was unpleasant while it lasted, but it is over —and my toasted scones are delicious. Once in England, she made all haste to visit Remenham House. The ledge, along which he crawled, was about a foot wide. Her heart was beating with quite unaccustomed vigour, her hands were hot, she was conscious of a warmth in her blood which the summer sunshine was scarcely responsible for.
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