She directed him to an old part of the highway, a featureless stretch of old farmhouses capped in snow, with the occasional working silo. It was an awful moment—so awful, that every other feeling except deep interest in the scene seemed suspended. As she averted her gaze, a terrible idea crossed her. Something forbade him to draw her toward him and seal the compact with a kiss. Some excuse for this rapacity may perhaps be found in the fact, that five thousand pounds was paid for the purchase of the Press Yard by Mr.
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