I do not love any one. “But you do not know,” she whispered, “whether I am a married woman or not. Not so bad. Her mother informed her of the betrothal on the first painful day of her menarche, shortly after her eleventh birthday. Everything was fresh and bright, from the kindly manners of the Frutigen cobbler, who hammered mountain nails into her boots, to the unfamiliar wild flowers that spangled the wayside.
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