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Wych Hazel by Anna Bartlett Warner;Susan Warner
page 121 of 648 (18%)
and also conveying sweeter, finer, more intimate touches of
feeling and mood than tongue could tell if it tried. Wych
Hazel remembered this clasp of her hand, and felt it as often
as she remembered it. There was nothing sentimental; it was
only a frank clasp, in which her hand for a moment was not her
own; and though the clasp did not linger, for that second's
continuance it gave her an indescribable impression, she could
hardly have told of what. It was not merely the gentleness;
she could not separate from that the notion of possession, and
of both as being in the mind, to which the hand was an index.
But such a thought passes as it comes. Something else in those
five minutes brought the colour flitting about her face,
coming and going as if ashamed of itself; but with it all she
was intensely amused; _she_ was not sentimental, nor even
serious, and the girlish light heart danced a _pas seul_ to such
a medley of tunes that it was a wonder how she could keep step
with them all.

'What do you expect to see at Chickaree?'

'Birds, trees, and horses, and--Mr. Falkirk, didn't you say
there would be cats?'

'Let him alone--he is deep in your book,' said Rollo, as Mr.
Falkirk made some astonished response. "I meant, what do you
remember of the place? we are almost at the gate.'

'I'll tell you--nothing yet. Ah!'--

Through some lapse in the dense woodland there gleamed upon
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