“Why not?” He asked. Behind the Avenue was a little hill, and an iron-fenced path went over the crest of this to a stile under an elm-tree, and forked there, with one branch going back into the Avenue again. Ramage pursed his rather loose lips and shrugged his shoulders, with his eyes fixed steadily upon her. See!" she added, tearing the rag from her head,—"I had beautiful black hair once.
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