It was astonishing how often this picture returned: cold rosy apples and flurries of snow. “Where are they?” She looked around. “And even then—” The conversation hung for a thoughtful moment. Jack had got into one of the pens at the north side of the chapel. Neither would she allow herself to feel guilty nor would she allow him to find a way into the house. They are things faint and slight in themselves, as physical facts, but they are like the detonator of a bomb: they let loose the explosive.
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