“You Mr. It's of no use. It’s the poor dears who do, who know they will, know they can’t keep it up, who need to clutch at way-side flowers. The idea of your being a failure would never have occurred to me. Anna’s face was half turned from him, but her expression, and the tone of her monosyllable puzzled him. I trust you will not accuse me of discourtesy if I express my pleasure that henceforth our ways will lie apart. ‘Here, miss,’ came faintly from somewhere close at hand. She closed her eyes as if asleep, her hands folded neatly on her abdomen. Neither did his interest,—which was by no means inconsiderable,—nor his general popularity, procure him the preferment he desired. He was a Wiltshire Edmondshaw, a very old family.
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