She began to think persistently of Capes, and it seemed to her now that for some weeks at least she must have been thinking persistently of him unawares. “She has refused to listen to you?” “She has behaved in a most extraordinary manner,” he answered. The pole-chair caravan resumed its journey. "To me?" gasped Winifred. “MY DEAR DAUGHTER,” it ran,—“Here, on the verge of the season of forgiveness I hold out a last hand to you in the hope of a reconciliation. I didn’t realize—I don’t see how I can get out of it now. She stepped on to the pavement almost before him, and his blood turned almost to ice as he saw that she was not alone. The fact itself is regrettable enough—regrettable, I fear, is quite an inadequate word.
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