She read beautifully because the fixed form of the poem signified nothing. Ralph. “My sister,” she murmured, “is so independent. I love you all the more for the streak of sheer devil in you. I must say what I have to say!” “But not now—not here. ” She relented. The air was sharp and bracing, and the leaves which had taken their autumnal tints were falling from the trees. So, after the dinner was over, Spurlock took her home; and worked far into the night. She attempted by a sheer act of will to end the scene, to will herself out of it anywhere.
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