She ran from the knave into the women’s quarters. But the clearly definite thing was the ultimate escape. 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. What had urged her to wrench loose and fly was the guarding instinct of the good woman. Ovarian cancer. "I owe you nothing," he repeated, dully. My trouble is with your sister.
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