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Updated: May 20, 2025
She was in the woody hollow by Rufus's stone, blindfold, with arms stretched helplessly out, seeking for Rorie among the smooth beech-boles, with a dreadful sense of loneliness, and a fear that he was far away, and that she would perish, lost and alone, in that dismal wood. So the slow night wore on to morning.
"I know'd her by her musling gownd, and the sweet-smelling stuff upon her pocket-handkercher," he roared. Violet submitted with a good grace. "I'm dreadfully tired," she said, "and I'm sure I shan't catch anyone." The sun had been getting lower and lower. There were splashes of ruddy light on the smooth gray beech-boles, and that was all. Soon these would fade, and all would be gloom.
"Oh, I am so tired," cried Violet at last, when church clocks all out of earshot in this deep valley were striking eight, and the low sun was golden on the silvery beech-boles, and the quiet half-hidden water-pools under the trees yonder; "I really don't think I can have anything to do with the next game."
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