Love and lavender, he thought, perhaps wistfully. If you ride past the church, and mount the hill, you'll come to Neasdon and then you'll not have above half a mile to go. And through it all, like a golden thread on a piece of tapestry, weaving in and out of the patterns, the unspoken longing for love. All your faults are just jolly modelling to make you real and solid. ‘This is a private house,’ Hilary said severely, ‘and you are trespassing.
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