‘Bête,’ she flung at him. My father died a year ago, by the way. “Do come and see the Michaelmas daisies at the end of the garden,” said Mr. Standing before a mirror set on a dresser between the windows, two hands frozen in the act of adjusting a wide-brimmed hat on her head, stood a lady in a dark riding habit, her startled features turned towards the door. The voice of the young seaman came floating down from the masthead, and the story of the immortal lovers had begun.
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