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. She did not remember how many seasons it took before she relented, how much time before she decided to toy with his affections. ’ ‘It was so,’ said Valade, becoming a trifle more fluent. “I cannot conceive,” he said, “how any other occupation could ever have occurred to you.
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