The place pulsed with music too loud to converse above. Below her stretched a valley of rich meadowland, of yellow cornfields, and beyond moorland hillside glorious with purple heather and golden gorse. Her fingers clutched the side of the door as though to steady herself. You’re such a strange girl. “It is a great art,” she said in broken English. No one could take the place for anything but what it was, and even Gosse hesitated in the doorway. He was heartily thankful for it.
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