Even Capes had been for her merely an excitant to passionate love—a mere idol at whose feet one could enjoy imaginative wallowings. It is foolish, she murmured to herself, foolish. "You base ingrate," she added, in a whisper, as she flounced past Mr. "Don't ask me about it now. “You remind me of a little blue stone I had once. ‘It is the life I know. “This is all madness,” she declared wearily.
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