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“You might at least,” she murmured, “have invented a more romantic reason. The cloth was removed, and Wood, drawing the table as near the window as possible—for it was getting dusk —put on his spectacles, and opened that sacred volume from which the best consolation in affliction is derived, and left the lovers—for such they may now be fairly termed—to their own conversation. He stood with his hands in his pockets looking at Miss Klegg’s back. He was brooding over her, she could sense it, and the shadowy circles around his lovely dark eyes bespoke a terrible ongoing insomnia. Mr. His job as a painter was wearing him down acutely as he aged.
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This video was uploaded to waterscolumns.info on 26-09-2024 11:21:15