‘Well?’ demanded Miss Froxfield, accepting a glass of lemonade proffered by a passing lackey. The man pulled up. ” Hill closed his eyes. The next page was a drawing that she had made in pen and ink of his face, or what she had remembered of it. . To walk beside him, dressed akin to him, rucksacked and companionable, was bliss in itself; each step she took was like stepping once more across the threshold of heaven.
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