“Suppose I chuck it,” she remarked, standing with the mauve slip in her hand —“suppose I chuck it, and surrender and go home! Perhaps, after all, Roddy was right! “Father keeps opening the door and shutting it, but a time will come— “I could still go home!” She held Ramage’s check as if to tear it across. But some day she would find a place to love: there would be rosy apples on the boughs, and there would be flurries of snow blowing into her face. The comtesse always felt Madame Valade to be not of her class, of course. Capes saw her, felt for her, cared for her greatly, even if he did not love her. He dropped the key on the counterpane.
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