She is not in the least like the descriptions of her. Her face reminded him of a delicate unglazed porcelain cup, filled with blond wine. ” “Except,” said Constance, surveying her work with her head on one side, “to keep the matches from the litter. 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. The flowers and turf, a wild strawberry, a rare butterfly, and suchlike little intimate things had become more interesting than mountains. You will leave me utterly distraught. Here was an appalling fact: all her previous loneliness had been trifling beside that which now encompassed her and would for years to come.
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