Recognising the handwriting, he glanced swiftly at the signature, and uttering an explosive curse, cast the paper from him. “It’s bound to be all right,” she said. Love and lavender, he thought, perhaps wistfully. If she had any idea at all, it was something she dimly recalled from her books: something celestially beautiful, with a happy ending. "What shall we do, Poll?" hesitated Edgeworth Bess. Help—should she need it—from the natives was out of the question. She still kicked herself for it. E.
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