A fresh cool breeze blew in their faces. ‘Beg pardon, sir?’ asked the sergeant, evidently mystified. America, the land of rosy apples and snowstorms, beckoned, and she wanted to fly thitherward. Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love. It seemed as if each time her imagination reached out investingly, an invisible lash beat it back.
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