"While I live you are safe," rejoined Trenchard; "after my death I can answer for nothing. The doorbell tinkled and Michelle grabbed her purse and rushed down the creaky wooden stairs. “My dad is into this stuff. Her glance, absorbing the gilt letters and their significance, communicated to her poised body a species of paralysis. There was another little thing he had to say. One might have said that these trees grieved for their native soil; and, grieving, refused to bear.
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