She got up, put the neat cuffs she had made into her work-basket, and went to the bureau for the little cards in the morocco case. “You poor child!” he said; “don’t you see the infinite folly of these proceedings? Think! Think of the love and affection you abandon! Think of your aunt, a second mother to you. All at once they came to the top, the faded blue sky overhead, and whichever way he looked, the horizon, the great rocking circle which hemmed them in. Her specialty is the central thing in life, it is life itself, the warmth of life, sex—and love. "You are an angel," she cried, with a look beaming with delight. He knew she had been weeping. The lady's name's engraved inside, but so small I can scarcely read it.
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