" "I hadn't thought of that. We are alone, Sir Rowland," he added, snuffing the candles, glancing cautiously around, and lowering his tone, "and what you confide to me shall never transpire,—at least to your disadvantage. Afterward, one afternoon, he hovered about her, and came and sat beside her and talked of beauty and the riddle of beauty for some time. Do you know that he is very much in love with you?” Anna smiled. She enjoyed preparing the evening meals, the smells of potatoes roasting in the oven, the stink of onions in the pan, the crackle of chicken frying. No! I do not even know that he cares for me. That is what I must do. They are not your flowers. “I suppose you’ll come to the point soon—if there is one. She put down the sketch-books and apparatus she had brought with her, pulled out her stool, and sat down. At the back of her mind there seemed always one irrelevant qualifying spectator whose presence she sought to disregard. The spectacle seemed to afford as much amusement to Jonathan as to the actors engaged in it. Everything, Miss Miniver said, was “working up,” everything was “coming on”—the Higher Thought, the Simple Life, Socialism, Humanitarianism, it was all the same really. ‘Well, I can see you won’t let it alone, so what do you propose to do about the wench?’ ‘I’ll die before I let it alone,’ Gerald vowed.
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