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At the back of the house, on a bank, rose an old-fashioned terrace-garden, full of apple-trees and other fruittrees in blossom, and lively with the delicious verdure of early spring. I hate this part of the world. “I hope,” Annabel answered lazily, “that you have succeeded. Only that I was prevented by one of those soldiers that caught me in the big house. . I am too weak to aid you. I don’t want to Bowdlerize Shakespeare. She saw her mother, her pale face, a woman in a white robe, calling to her from a sun drenched balcony.
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