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She walked back at a slow pace, and sung to herself above her darker-flowing thoughts, like the reed-warbler on the branch beside the night-stream; a simple song of a lighthearted sound, independent of the shifting black and grey of the flood underneath. A step was at her heels. "I see you have been petting my scapegrace." "Mr. Whitford! Yes; not petting, I hope. I tried to give him a lecture.
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