But it’s very beastly. Why did he take me?’ Martha’s damp eyes were puzzled. He had barely settled at his desk in his library, when he was disturbed by two morning callers. They were suddenly thrown aside, and a man stepped out from his hiding-place. He sent me flowers. "Red apples and snow!" he repeated. If only sometimes he would grow angry at her, impatient! But his tender courtesy was unfailing; and under this would be the abiding bitterness of having mistaken gratitude for love.
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