What was his transport on perceiving that a few yards above him a light was burning. Below her stretched a valley of rich meadowland, of yellow cornfields, and beyond moorland hillside glorious with purple heather and golden gorse. “You are mine, Annabel, and nothing shall ever make me give you up. The fire—if there was any in him—never made headway against this insistant demand to know the significance of these manifold inward agitations. Later. He was the social order; he was law and wisdom.
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