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| The Touchstone | Edith Wharton | |
Chapter XI |
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The sharp air caught him as he stepped out into it again. He walked back and scattered the flowers over the grave. The edges of the white petals shrivelled like burnt paper in the cold; and as he watched them the illusion of her nearness faded, shrank back frozen. |
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The Touchstone Edith Wharton |
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