She watched her friend rise and go towards her affianced husband, a look of mischief in her face. Just as they reached the eastern outlet of the churchyard— where the tall elms cast a pleasant shade over the rustic graves—a momentary stoppage took place. Ennison seemed to feel already the shadow of tragedy approaching. She had a bittersweet fragrance, like dusty books and honeysuckle. “Quite on my own,” she said. ” She looked around for the voice around the Orchestra room, fumbling around with her books.
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