I am glad, exceedingly glad.

Her temperament--I have got reconciled to her affliction--craves the gaiety which London denies her.
"And when are you going ?" I asked.
"To-morrow." "To-morrow ?" "Why not?
I wired Delphine this morning.

I had to go out to get something for lunch (my conviction, it appears, was right), and I thought I might as well take an omnibus to Charing Cross and send a telegram." "But when are you going to pack ?" "I did that last night.

I didn't get to bed till four this morning.

I only made up my mind after you had gone," she added, in anticipation of a possible question.
It is better that we are not married.