I saw him ride away with that other fellow. Yet her aunt, with a ringed hand flitting to her lips and a puzzled, worried look in her eyes, deaf to all this riot of warmth and flitting desire, was playing Patience—playing Patience, as if Dionysius and her curate had died together. It isn’t sentiment but it’s horse sense. I like you very much, I haven’t known you enough to love you, no matter how worthy you are of love. With his foodle doo! This carpenter he had a wife, The plague and torment of his life, Who, though she did her husband scold, Loved well a woollen-draper bold. " "But you will,—won't you?" she rejoined, looking him coaxingly in the face.
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