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. Shy, grateful in her loneliness for this unexpected attention, she had listened. “This is not every day. This was no night for the indulgence of dreamy musing. She loved to be there, taking part in it all, breathing it, being it. Around him were all the evidences of plenty. All was darkness, horror, confusion, ruin. She has never done a really ignoble thing that I know of— never.
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