And now, my love," she added, with a relenting look, "I'm content to make up our quarrel. Leastways, not on your own. Then, after Capes had been through her work and had gone on, it came to her that the fabric of this life of hers was doomed to almost immediate collapse; that in a little while these studies would cease, and perhaps she would never set eyes on him again. No, don’t let me call myself that.
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