It was astonishing how often this picture returned: cold rosy apples and flurries of snow. Then the girl was heading past the inn and Roding marched down to confront her. I did not reckon upon—him. So many distresses— so many joys coming at the same time are too much for me. He liked to be near me, he liked to be near any female, especially a young female. But her mind was ruffled, and its mirror-like surface of satisfaction was not easily restored. “You are a thousand times more beautiful,” he said, “than anything else could be. ” “Well, perhaps it is a bit depressing.
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