Alice, admirable as she was, had a fatal habit, he thought, of uttering bromides.
And she instantly regretted the remark.

She knew that way of his of snapping his cigarette case.

Was that heavily be-flowered church a dream and that great house in New York only part of a mirage?
He seemed to be the husband of some other girl, barely able to tolerate this interruption.

She had come determined to get the truth, however terrible it might be.

But it was very difficult, and he was obviously not going to help her, and now that she saw him again, curiously worn and nervous and petulant, she dreaded to ask for facts under which her love was to be laid in waste.
"No wonder you like this place," she said, beating about the bush.
"I don't.