“I am bored,” she said abruptly. You will never be able to draw. If only sometimes he would grow angry at her, impatient! But his tender courtesy was unfailing; and under this would be the abiding bitterness of having mistaken gratitude for love. He carried a small bag. I could never have talked to you like this, forgetting everything that parts us, forgetting even your age, if I did not love you utterly. She was obliged, as she explained continually to every one who cared to listen, to be so very particular. ‘Comment? This is not a mirror!’ It was a portrait.
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