But you weren't binding books." "No, no," returned Old Grannis, drawing up a chair and sitting down.
"No, I--the fact is, I've sold my apparatus; a firm of booksellers has bought the rights of it." "And aren't you going to bind books any more ?" exclaimed the little dressmaker, a shade of disappointment in her manner.

"I thought you always did about four o'clock.

I used to hear you when I was making tea." It hardly seemed possible to Miss Baker that she was actually talking to Old Grannis, that the two were really chatting together, face to face, and without the dreadful embarrassment that used to overwhelm them both when they met on the stairs.

She had often dreamed of this, but had always put it off to some far-distant day.

It was to come gradually, little by little, instead of, as now, abruptly and with no preparation.
That she should permit herself the indiscretion of actually intruding herself into his room had never so much as occurred to her.