Her heart was beating with quite unaccustomed vigour, her hands were hot, she was conscious of a warmth in her blood which the summer sunshine was scarcely responsible for. Already the warm sun was drawing from the pines their delicious odour. Wood. “The young women of Jane Austen’s time didn’t get into this sort of scrape! At least—one thinks so. "I didn't think you'd been so easily fooled, Joan.
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