‘And you, my girl, if you’d been born at all, would have been just what you think you are. At Christmas he gave her a set of a small edition of Meredith’s novels, very prettily bound in flexible leather, being guided in the choice of an author, as he intimated, rather by her preferences than his own. He was evidently nervous, and very anxious to be impressive; his projecting eyes sought to dominate. “No, I am alone,” she answered. The fact that it was her trusted friend making illicit love to her remained, in spite of all her effort, an insignificant thing in her mind. " All day long the phrase interpolated her thoughts.
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