A golden cornfield in the still sunshine of a warm August
afternoon. In one corner of it, bordering a green lane, a group of
shady elms, and under their shadow a figure of a young girl, who,
gazing dreamily before her, sat leaning her head against an old
gnarled trunk in quiet content. A small-shaped head, with dark
curly hair, and a pair of blue-grey eyes with black curved lashes,
these were perhaps her chief characteristics; more I cannot say,
for it is difficult to describe oneself, and it was I, Hilda Thorn,
who was seated there.
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