Charley Pevenill was our host. In spite of God and wasps and her father, she had stolen plums; and once because of discovered misdeeds, and once because she had realized that her mother was dead, she had lain on her face in the unmown grass, beneath the elmtrees that came beyond the vegetables, and poured out her soul in weeping. You can’t! I tell you frankly you may break off your engagement to me—I shall hold myself still engaged to you, yours just the same. He was a small, dark, reserved man, with a large inflexiblelooking convex forehead, and his wife was very pink and high-spirited, with one of those chins that pass insensibly into a full, strong neck. Miss Stanley hesitated, and took first one and then another of the constituents of this costume off its peg and surveyed it. Over here a man quickly loses faith, and I find myself back on solid ground once more. Once more he was the searcher. Their conversation became stilted. After a certain amount of manœuvring, however, he was induced to crawl around, and in a few minutes came to stop again before a tall brightly-painted house, which seemed like an oasis of colour and assertive prosperity in a long dingy row. Her father was distinctly irascible, and disposed more than ever to hide away among the petrological things—the study was turned out.
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