She was never violent when angry: she became as calm and baffling as the sea in doldrums. “I suppose,” said her father, “I have read at least half the novels that have been at all successful during the last twenty years. Just as they reached the eastern outlet of the churchyard— where the tall elms cast a pleasant shade over the rustic graves—a momentary stoppage took place. They turned off at Glen Grove, a sleepy town of less than two hundred. He barely shook the rose petals from her hair. "How goes it?" he began, heartily. 1715.
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