"Well, what sort of journey have you had, Quilt?" asked the man as he hastened to assist Sir Rowland to dismount. A white house that she often found charming loomed gray and ashen, its gardens shorn for the coming winter. This path, bordered on each side by high privet hedges of the most beautiful green, soon brought them to a stile. She was with these movements—akin to them, she felt it at times intensely—and yet something eluded her. She reached for the door handle.
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