“That,” he said, grimly, with his hand on the doorhandle, “must be your own affair, unless you choose to live at Morningside Park. Any man might have endeavoured to protect himself in this fashion, a man with no one to care, with an unnameable terror at the thought (as if it mattered!) of being buried in alien earth, far from the familiar places he loved. Then he did give way a bit. And, to show you that I have no intention of flying, I will myself close and lock the door. He wished he had the time to solve this riddle, for it was a riddle, and four-square besides. This is part of a dream— some evil fancy. At a turn in the road, he perceived Winifred looking anxiously towards him, and when she discovered him, she waved her hand. The emerald wings, slashed with scarlet and yellow, wheeling and swooping about her head, there among the wild plantain. This "fatal retreat for the unfortunate brave" was marked by a low wooden railing, within which stood the triple tree. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. Once or twice she commented upon it, but she knew that it was resultant of his fear of her impending departure. Jonathan caught her in his arms. She thrust at him, following, almost spitting him as he crashed against the altar, rocking the huge candlesticks and the vessels that stood on it. Quite right.
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