At the back of the house, on a bank, rose an old-fashioned terrace-garden, full of apple-trees and other fruittrees in blossom, and lively with the delicious verdure of early spring. “Why not?” He asked. Something he saw there had a curious effect upon him. Sheppard, passing her hand across her brow; "but my memory is gone—quite gone. “The white unaggressive woman who corrects and nurses and serves, and is worshipped and betrayed—the martyr-queen of men, the white mother. " "As many as you please, Sir Rowland," replied Jonathan, resuming his seat.
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