If only sometimes he would grow angry at her, impatient! But his tender courtesy was unfailing; and under this would be the abiding bitterness of having mistaken gratitude for love. She kept thinking she was thinking about Mr. . And you promised to tell me. It comforts him when he is most forlorn. His glance swept up again and found her staring at him with much of her usual defiance, if a touch less of her customary assurance. You’d think he wanted to meet the wretch again. Spurling, drily. He gave her silence in return. But he died when he was a child—long ago—long ago—long ago.
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