“So it seems that I was wrong. A message was dispatched from Florence that she was to again receive her future husband. It was fastened inside. Wood had been my father, as well as yours. She wanted to think of him as her beloved person, to be near him and watch him, to have him going about, doing this and that, saying this and that, unconscious of her, while she too remained unconscious of herself. The thought of their faces, and particularly of her aunt’s, as it would meet the fact— disconcerted, unfriendly, condemning, pained—occurred to her again and again. He looked eager and flushed and troubled. Her moods were many and always striking.
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