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. ‘Dare I suppose that to be of her making?’ Gerald flushed. Her tone should have warned him, but he was too much in earnest to regard it. She held it away from her with an instinctive repulsion, born of her unconquerable antipathy to the touch of strangers. Here I am as an alternative either to nasty work—or going home.
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