A medley of motives warred in her, and it was certainly not one of the least of these that she knew herself to be passionately in love with Capes; at moments she had a giddy intimation that he was beginning to feel keenly interested in her. Stanley. 153 The halls emptied with special urgency as teens rushed forth into heated cars and buses to make the mad dash home before the coming storm. The hymnal lyrics had never stirred her; she had memorized and sung them parrotwise. Not a word passed between them. “My dear boy,” she exclaimed. The four tourists contributed varied sums: the spinsters ten cents each, the girl a shilling, the young man a Mexican dollar. Crack went the whip, and away floundered the heavy vehicle through the deep ruts of the ill-kept road, or rather lane, (for it was little better,) which, then, led across Southampton Fields. Madame Valade was that kind of woman. .
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