He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. Afterward, one afternoon, he hovered about her, and came and sat beside her and talked of beauty and the riddle of beauty for some time. I got a rusty bolt cutter. It’s the poor dears who do, who know they will, know they can’t keep it up, who need to clutch at way-side flowers. ” “Oh!” he said, in a colorless tone, and with his eyes on her face. “She seems an unusually clever girl,” said Ramage.
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