I still have a cross stitch she made for me of a little fairy sitting on a daffodil. She gazed steadily out of the window at that arc of glittering lights. “MY DEAR MISS PELLISSIER,— “To-morrow the six months will be up. Her roving eagerness was at all times shaded with shyness, reserve, repression. His face, as he looked down where his hand sought for a weapon concealed in her petticoat, was so close that she could see only the line of his firm jaw, the drag of his powdered hair that drew it into the military pigtail, and the black ribbon that adorned it.
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