Lolo tore at one of the roses with her teeth. “Oh!” she exclaimed, flinging out her arm wildly toward the ugly green wall-paper of her room that symbolized everything she so hated—“Oh, I know—I know! I do not want to think of them, but I—but we—must, Jason sweetheart, we must! And life so all-wondrous, beating vainly against their iron bars and looking beyond them into paradise. We must think of them,”—a little sob crept from her throat,—“we must think of them!”
“Let us think, rather,” said Massington, “of that other world in which we might live, to which, Lolo dear, we might go, and, once there, be away from every one, all alone, we two—just you and I. Let us think of Spain, shimmering like some great topaz under the tropic sun; of the Pyrenees that, purpled against the evening heavens, watch over the peaceful valleys of Santo Dalmerigo; of the drowsy noons and silver moons of Italy; let us think, loved one, of the rippling Mediterranean and of
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France singing like a thousand violins under summer skies.”
Lolo did not answer.