"Give me till to-morrow," implored she, "and if I can bring myself to part with him, you shall have him without another word. He walked out into the Champs Elysées and sat down. After all, this could never be the black sheep. The thought of you, wandering from pillar to post, believing yourself hunted—it tore my old heart to pieces! For I knew you. 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. He smiled tenderly. He patted the hand on his sleeve. He knew she had been weeping.
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