She was afraid Bridget and George would never really get on, though she--Nelly--wanted to forget all the unpleasantness there had been,--to forget everything--everything but George.

The fortnight's honeymoon lay like a haze of sunlight between her and the past.
But Bridget had noticed the voice and the clasped hands,--with irritation.

Really, after a fortnight, they might have done with that kind of demonstrativeness.

All the same, Nelly was quite extraordinarily pretty--prettier than ever.

While the sister was slowly putting on her hat before the only mirror the sitting-room possessed, she was keenly conscious of the two figures near the window, of the man in khaki sitting on the arm of Nelly's chair, holding her hand, and looking down upon her, of Nelly's flushed cheek and bending head.