That's bad." "No," said Edith, "that's best of all.

It shows she's thinking of you.
She wants to understand.

Believe me, the affair marches." He meditated on that.
In the evening, the better to meditate, he withdrew to his study.

It was not long before Anne came to him of her own accord.

She asked if she might read aloud to him.
"I should be honoured," he replied stiffly.
She chose Emerson, "On Compensation." And Majendie did not care for Emerson.
But Anne had a charming voice; a voice with tones that penetrated like pain, that thrilled like a touch, that clung delicately like a shy caress; tones that were as a funeral bell for sadness; tones that rose to passion without ever touching it; clear, cool tones that were like water to passion's flame.