I can’t. To the practised eye of the waterman matters wore a very different air. It seemed to show a want of affection, to be a deliberate and unmerited disregard, to justify the reprisal of being hurt. They’re just a joyous softening of the outline—more beautiful than perfection. That world of fine printed cambrics and escorted maidens, of delicate secondary meanings and refined allusiveness, presented itself to her imagination with the brightness of a lost paradise, as indeed for many women it is a lost paradise. Her aunt glanced up startled, and then sat very still, with hands that had ceased to work. He trembled, not from any superstitious dread, but from an undefined sense of approaching danger. Teacher.
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