The girl was like some north-country woodland pool, penetrated by a single shaft of sunlight—beautifully clear in one spot and mysteriously obscured elsewhere. It was on the eve of that memorable rebellion which broke forth, two months later, in Scotland. “Please forgive me coming up, Miss Pellissier, but you have not been down to dinner for three nights, and—Brendon and I—we were afraid that you might be unwell. That night, she hunted the alleyways of the old town. The ragged edge. Now I do. You know that. Mac's. ‘Ah, the tragedy. I don’t care.
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