I think she's lovely; but I'm afraid she doesn't like me.
I can read--oh, I can read pretty well.

She certainly didn't like it that I had arranged everything and was there to meet her.

But wasn't she tired?
Wasn't she very tired?
There certainly was something that was wrong." "I think your imagination had something to do with it," said Mr.
Belcher, although he knew that she was right.
"No, I can read;" and Mrs.Dillingham's voice trembled.

"If she could only know how honestly I have tried to serve her, and how disappointed I am that my service has not been taken in good part, I am sure that her amiable heart would forgive me." Mrs.Dillingham took out her handkerchief, near a street lamp, and wiped her eyes.
What could Mr.Belcher do with this beautiful, susceptible, sensitive creature?
What could he do but reassure her?
Under the influence of her emotion, his wife's offense grew flagrant, and he began by apologizing for her, and ended by blaming her.
"Oh! she was tired--she was very tired.

That was all.