Well might she do so, Gerald thought in irritation. Behind the Avenue was a little hill, and an iron-fenced path went over the crest of this to a stile under an elm-tree, and forked there, with one branch going back into the Avenue again. “Good,” he said, as he watched the colour come back to her cheeks. No matter how often she came across this phase in love stories, there was never anything explanatory: as if all human beings perfectly understood.
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