Below her stretched a valley of rich meadowland, of yellow cornfields, and beyond moorland hillside glorious with purple heather and golden gorse. The image in the glass was not clear, for the light was not bright enough to see properly, but the shadows of her riding habit and the hat with its waving plumes framed a countenance that gazed serenely back at her out of long-lashed blue eyes. What little happiness I had I was forced to steal. She returned home to the Beck house soaked and soggy. Anna admitted the fact. It was not a hopeful looking group.
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