Then they would leave and she would go back to being alone. And yet that could not be: it was a confession only in the event of his death. "Why came she here?" "She could not resist the hand of fate which drew her hither," replied Sir Cecil, mournfully. ‘Go then. So it does. The trees were graceful and brown, arching and fanning their golden leaves as if to shower with coins the pink-gold sky.
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