‘Silence,’ hissed a voice in French. “Really,” she said. "Red apples and snow!" she sent back at him, her face suddenly transfixed by some inner glory. The poet's appearance altogether was highly prepossessing. “I wonder what he takes me for?” When presently she got down from the stile a certain note of internal conflict, a touch of doubt, had gone from her warm-tinted face. Wood. The sky was cloudless, effulgent blue. For just as though a vague likeness is sometimes borne swiftly in upon one, so a vague dissimilarity between the face on the poster and the heroine of his thoughts had slowly crept into his consciousness.
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