She was about to rush to his side, when she saw his clenched hands rise and fall upon the sand repeatedly. If she’s over, he probably knows all about it. She would never love him as she loved Capes, of course, but there are grades and qualities of love. Instead of English villas and cottages there were chalets and Italian-built houses shining white; there were lakes of emerald and sapphire and clustering castles, and such sweeps of hill and mountain, such shining uplands of snow, as she had never seen before. To a woman she might have confided; but to this man, kindly as he was, it was unthinkable. For that such a man does not mind about the dowry, he must be in love en désespoir. "The poor young man!" she said. The future? He dared not speculate upon that. I am certainly no ghost.
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