He pictured himself visiting the girl in this shabby little home of her aunt’s—she had told him that it was shabby—and he recalled that delicious little smile with which she would surely greet him, a smile which seemed to be a matter of the eyes as well as the lips. “If only Sir John were not Sir John I would ask you to come and have some supper. Jonathan's threats are not to be sneezed at. You are not ‘Alcide. I came to beg you instead to do me the honour of becoming my wife. “I”—he seemed to have a difficulty with the word—“I love you. The thought of their faces, and particularly of her aunt’s, as it would meet the fact— disconcerted, unfriendly, condemning, pained—occurred to her again and again. If he got her outside, surely the soldiers would see her and intervene.
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