Don't feel fussed upon my account. He did not care whether the stories were accepted or not. ‘I’m damned if I see what you have to complain of,’ uttered Charvill, a faintly bewildered note underlying his irascibility. Below her stretched a valley of rich meadowland, of yellow cornfields, and beyond moorland hillside glorious with purple heather and golden gorse. The place for reading. Sheppard looked fixedly at him, as if she would penetrate the gloomy depth of his soul.
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