"I want you to leave Ireland—not next month, or next week, but at once. To-morrow, if possible.",
But first she turns and casts a last lingering glance upon the sloping hill down which her sweetheart, filled with angry thoughts, had gone. And as she so stands, with her hand to her forehead, after a little while a slow smile of conscious power comes to her lips and tarries round them, as though fond of its resting-place.,
Her face changes. He has made no mention of the treasured gown, has said no little word of praise..
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