She followed him about persistently, and succeeded, after a brisk, unchivalrous struggle (in which he pinched and asked her to “cheese it”), in kissing him among the raspberries behind the greenhouse. She had started wearing the dresses he bought for her, the white and blue shift he said, “brings out the color in your eyes”. “Forgive me,” he said, “but I want to hear it from your sister. Nicholas is dead. The path he had selected conducted him to his mother's humble dwelling.
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