Below her stretched a valley of rich meadowland, of yellow cornfields, and beyond moorland hillside glorious with purple heather and golden gorse. Never for a moment had violence come between these two since long ago he had, in spite of her mother’s protest in the background, carried her kicking and squalling to the nursery for some forgotten crime. “I believe,” he said stiffly, “that these are the apartments of Miss Pellissier. Please sit with me. “She’s my wife,” the man muttered.
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