I sat within a few feet of him. Small blame to her. This one was Henry Esmond, that one the melancholy Marius, and so forth and so on; never any villains. She followed him about persistently, and succeeded, after a brisk, unchivalrous struggle (in which he pinched and asked her to “cheese it”), in kissing him among the raspberries behind the greenhouse. They were talking of “Alcide,” as they often did in those days.
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