"Hush!" she said, putting her lean fingers to her lips. ‘Yes, but quite my own fault. Her father intercepted her, and for a moment she and he struggled with their hands upon the latch. It’s a beautiful plant, but a tender one. Trodger was lying in wait at the bottom of the narrow stairs. Clear water gave away to gray as she waded deeper, feeling her slippers on rock. Voilà tout. She saw her life before her robbed of all generous illusions, the wrappered life unwrappered forever, vistas of dull responses, crises of makebelieve, years of exacting mutual disregard in a misty garden of fine sentiments. You are yet a child; and though you have strayed from the right path, a stronger hand than your own has led you thence.
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