He carried a cane and a silk hat with a mourning-band in one gray-gloved hand; his frock-coat and trousers were admirable; his handsome face, his black mustache, his prominent brow conveyed an eager solicitude. But some day she would find a place to love: there would be rosy apples on the boughs, and there would be flurries of snow blowing into her face. ‘Very well, arrest me. He would certainly welcome McClintock's advent. His was the Latin turn of thinking; he had fallen in love at thirteen, and he was still capable—he prided himself—of falling in love.
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