But some day she would find a place to love: there would be rosy apples on the boughs, and there would be flurries of snow blowing into her face. She threw out a hand to stop herself from cannoning into them and, losing balance, tripped over her own petticoats and fell to the carpeted floor, her hat falling off as she did so. ‘But only think, Hilary,’ Lucy protested, evidently too involved in her theory to waste time in scolding. He would have to make sure of her silence.
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