Her depression since the “accident” had possessed her, she no longer cared how she looked as her beauty helped her not. ‘I’m determined to find out all about you, mademoiselle. See what your misconduct has deprived you of —see what you might have been. “Then turn round and go back there,” she directed. The haste to send her upon her way now had but one interpretation—the recognition of his own immediate danger, the fear that if this tender association continued, he would end in offering her a calamity quite as impossible as that which had happened—the love of a man who was in all probability older than her father! The hurt was no less intensive because it was so ridiculous. At the back of the house, on a bank, rose an old-fashioned terrace-garden, full of apple-trees and other fruittrees in blossom, and lively with the delicious verdure of early spring. And this is not France, you understand. Since then he has persistently annoyed me. I’ve made no one happy. Be so good as to let me pass, sir,” she added, looking her obstructor steadily in the face.
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