“You were really at Moulton House,” she exclaimed penitently. The joy of being loved thrilled her as nothing before had ever done, a curious abstract joy which had nothing in it at that moment of regret or even pity. That blow made me a thief. There was hope for me then. Instead of English villas and cottages there were chalets and Italian-built houses shining white; there were lakes of emerald and sapphire and clustering castles, and such sweeps of hill and mountain, such shining uplands of snow, as she had never seen before. All at once her heart began to patter queerly. A slight cough uttered by Jonathan at the moment awakened the echoes of the place, and was returned in hollow reverberations. "Now stand before me, Poll.
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