She touched it, and her gaze lifted. They are tending to congregate, our poor French friends. “I can’t imagine, Miss Pellissier,” Brendon said, leaning towards her, “whatever made you think of coming to stay if only for a week at a Montague Street boarding-house. The knots and broken pale that made the garden-fence scalable, and gave access to the fields behind, were still to be traced. What else could he do? You can’t kick up a scene on the spur of the moment in the face of such conflicting values as he had before him. She wanted to stay where she was; but tears were dangerous; the more she wept, the weaker she would become defensively. It isn’t.
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