This is my friend, Mr. "Why, this is your writing Dolly, and addressed to Mr. “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. Everything was fresh and bright, from the kindly manners of the Frutigen cobbler, who hammered mountain nails into her boots, to the unfamiliar wild flowers that spangled the wayside. Men of action by the scarlet coats with their grey facings—insignia of the county militia. For I still love her mother.
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