She twanged the catgut under her fingers. . Even her own history teacher, Mr. Capes. She made a step forward. Not at all. No! I do not even know that he cares for me. She realized more and more the quality of the brink upon which she stood—the dreadful readiness with which in certain moods she might plunge, the unmitigated wrongness and recklessness of such a self-abandonment. 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. He had found her in a communicative mood, and he used the accumulated skill of years in turning that to account.
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