The bliss had lasted one hundred and forty years, far more than an entire mortal lifetime. 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. “I believe,” he said slowly, “that I shall do best to throw myself upon your consideration and tell you the truth. Yet she took with her an uneasy consciousness that in this affair might lie the germs of future trouble. Eight per cent.
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