If I’m late again I’ll have to serve another detention!” She excused herself, hoping it was not too obvious she was running away. The trees were graceful and brown, arching and fanning their golden leaves as if to shower with coins the pink-gold sky. She wished she could steal his smiles and keep them in a box, they had always been so precious. “They never seem so at first!” he said. She stood 218 there, broken bottle still in hand. “Thank goodness!” said that retreating aspect, “that’s said and over. No one had lived here since old man Remenham had died some eighteen months ago, for the heir, so it was rumoured, was a relative with property of his own. William Kneebone, Of me, Sir, you shall never be bone.
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