We’re going in. Behind the Avenue was a little hill, and an iron-fenced path went over the crest of this to a stile under an elm-tree, and forked there, with one branch going back into the Avenue again. It has all been a mistake. She warmed to him fast, her anger was much harder to carry than the pleasant everyday neutrality of affection. Holding the lamp over her rigid but beautiful features, Jonathan, with some anxiety, placed his hand upon her breast to ascertain whether the heart still beat. For a moment her thoughts led her back to the evening when she and Courtlaw had stood together before the window of her studio in Paris, before the coming of Sir John had made so many changes in her life. It was not possible. That’s my opinion, if you ask me. And I suppose it is too much to expect that any entirely English young lady would be prepared to tolerate me for the remainder of my life.
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