Away off in the fields the bluesmocked peasants bent still at their toil. "Them's catchpoles, I s'pose, Sir, arter the gemman with a writ?" he observed. In one hand she carried a long-stalked red rose, dripping with dew, in the other the post-bag. She moved towards it slowly and picked it up, holding it out in front of her whilst the familiar perfume seemed to assert itself with damning insistence.
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