But you shall swing, rascal,—you shall swing. Behind the Avenue was a little hill, and an iron-fenced path went over the crest of this to a stile under an elm-tree, and forked there, with one branch going back into the Avenue again. I wish very much that you had written before leaving Paris. For fifteen years!—so long as I can remember! All I wanted was a little love, a caress now and then.
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