‘Why?’ Melusine eyed him dubiously. “What are you doing?” He cried. Burn your palette and your easel. “Poor Lucy!” Cathy exclaimed as she rushed in the door, umbrella sheathed. Below her stretched a valley of rich meadowland, of yellow cornfields, and beyond moorland hillside glorious with purple heather and golden gorse. I can’t rest or work or settle down to anything while things are like this between you and me. "Drink this," cried Jonathan, handing her the cup.
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