He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. “That,” he said, grimly, with his hand on the doorhandle, “must be your own affair, unless you choose to live at Morningside Park. She wanted to think. " "Not now—not now!" she returned, with a shudder. ” She had a moment of sheer panic at the thing she had done. " "It may be; but if it shortens the distance and lightens the journey, I care not," retorted the widow, who seemed by this reproach to be roused into sudden eloquence. It frightened her to behold her heart and mind thus laid bare; but the chapter following would reassure her. .
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