Why? Love was a word of God's, and yet her father had denied it—denied it to the Book, denied it to his own flesh and blood. The young lady with whom I was dining last night was Miss Anna Pellissier. We have only those phantoms called memories, which are the husks of dreams. The tapstress was full of curiosity; but she appeared more easy than the others. She had traversed perhaps three bookshelves, passed across the door that must lead to the hall, turned the corner, and was just about to reach the fireplace when she abruptly became aware that something under her fingers had felt wrong. The world isn’t ready for girls to start out on their own yet; that’s the plain fact of the case. Instinctively she knew—some human recollection she had inherited—that she must not disturb him in this man-agony.
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