"I didn't carry you off from old Wood to kill you, but to wed you. But one changes the style of one's clothes yearly. " The spinsters stared at her blankly. “I don’t think she will,” she said. There were neither texts nor rubbish on the walls, but only a stirring version of Belshazzar’s feast, a steel engraving in the early Victorian manner that had some satisfactory blacks. The trees were graceful and brown, arching and fanning their golden leaves as if to shower with coins the pink-gold sky.
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