. She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. The trees were graceful and brown, arching and fanning their golden leaves as if to shower with coins the pink-gold sky. "In case he should consent—" "He never will," interrupted Winifred. If only for the sake of her argument with her home, she wanted success. "Can you not love him?" "Love him!" echoed the widow. But go on. . A cold shiver ran through her frame, and her gentle spirit passed away for ever.
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