They made a stratum into which Ann Veronica was now plunged up to her neck; it had become her stratum. 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. “They’d better not,” said Hetty. See? Down we should rush in a foam—in a cloud of snow—to flight and a dream. She addressed her letters, meditated on them for a time, and then took them out and posted them. But the sheer immensity of the tract! James Boyle was certainly up against it, hard.
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