Her spirit awoke in dismay to an affection in ruins, to the immense undignified disaster that had come to them. In truth, she liked Gerald also. They agreed to lend her their hold-all and a large, formless bag which they called the communal trunk. “I know,” she said quietly, “that Paris, where she has been so much admired, is not a good place for her. 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.
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