It is a matter of degree. As they left Florence, dying men and women still scrabbled through the streets, screams emanating from the rows of houses, beggars running up to the horses, sick children in their arms, their eyes bleeding, their noses running, begging to join them in their journey out. “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. ‘I said you were sympathique,’ she told him. And now— I suppose I should be considered too old. Fifteen from forty is twenty-five. The night had swallowed him up, but his work on her was done. " But the doctor softened the refusal by smiling. A small voice greeted her, hissing. And afterward her mother and Alice kissed long and clung to each other. "Red apples and snow!" he repeated.
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