“Miss Ellicot!” Brendon echoed. “It really seems as if we shall have to put down marigolds altogether next year,” Aunt Molly repeated three times, “and do away with marguerites. “I was sick of the make-believe. Lucia, you will come to love me and all the blessings of the Lord that marriage brings. In some incomprehensible way that back view made her feel sorry for Alice. A jar of pink roses upon a tiny table seemed to gain an extra delicacy of colour from the sombre curtains behind.
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