Her concluding paragraph was, on the whole, perhaps, hardly starchy enough. She would be haunted by the visions of their mad faces in her dreams for the next hundred years. And if I cared to have him come every day, why shouldn’t he? I find him very amusing and very useful as well. The haste to send her upon her way now had but one interpretation—the recognition of his own immediate danger, the fear that if this tender association continued, he would end in offering her a calamity quite as impossible as that which had happened—the love of a man who was in all probability older than her father! The hurt was no less intensive because it was so ridiculous. But some day she would find a place to love: there would be rosy apples on the boughs, and there would be flurries of snow blowing into her face.
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