Spurlock grew cold. \" He mumbled, his eyes on her breasts. She looked directly at his face, his perpetually graying hair, his hawkish nose, his long cheekbones. ’ ‘But he’s a major of militia, miss. . The air, perfumed with the delicious fragrance of the new-mown grass, was vocal with the melodies of the birds; the thick foliage of the trees was glistening in the sunshine; all nature seemed happy and rejoicing; but, above all, the serene Sabbath stillness reigning around communicated a calm to her wounded spirit.
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