A deadly sickness came over her, the room seemed spinning round. But some day she would find a place to love: there would be rosy apples on the boughs, and there would be flurries of snow blowing into her face. Sheppard, passing her hand across her brow; "but my memory is gone—quite gone. Ann Veronica, who knew her dress became her, dropped a curtsy to her father’s regard.
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