Below her stretched a valley of rich meadowland, of yellow cornfields, and beyond moorland hillside glorious with purple heather and golden gorse. But he seized the chance to entrap her fingers, fan and all, and look deeply into her eyes. ‘Who, the émigrés?’ ‘Do I speak of the English, imbecile? Certainly the émigrés. Miss Garvice repeated again, and almost in the same words she used at every discussion, her contribution to the great question. She had left for ever the cage, the galling leash: she was free.
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