I knew where I would go next: Florence. “Drive to 13, Montague Street, cabman,” she ordered. Anna watched her with curious eyes. "My own father!" Queerly the room and its objects receded and vanished; and there intervened a series of mental pictures that so long as she lived would ever be recurring. She ought to be softened and tender and confidential at this phase of her life. "Sounds as if I had heard it, but I can't place it this minute. You promise me you’ll never grow old, you hear?” “I promise. “My friend,” she said, “no! Let me tell you this.
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