“The young lady, I presume, told you that her name was Anna,” he remarked. She directed him to an old part of the highway, a featureless stretch of old farmhouses capped in snow, with the occasional working silo. He was nearly wincing. There came to Spurlock the recurrence of the grim resolution of what he had set out to do: that comradeship was all he might ever give this exquisite creature; for she was exquisite, and in a way she dominated this picture of sea and sky and sail. " "Did you discover any trace of footsteps?" inquired Jack eagerly. One only. “Until a girl can go away as a son does and earn her independent income, she’s still on a string. But some day she would find a place to love: there would be rosy apples on the boughs, and there would be flurries of snow blowing into her face.
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