You did not marry her because you loved her; you did not marry because she might have had money; you did not marry her out of gratitude; you did not marry her because you had to. His hand traveled below her loose neckline, and he cupped her round breast in his hand. There was the cottage she had inhabited for so many years,—in those fields she had rambled,—at that church she had prayed. The blinds were all drawn, the sunlight kept out, one could not tell what colors these gray swathings hid. Manning’s handwriting had an air of being clear without being easily legible; it was large and rather roundish, with a lack of definition about the letters and a disposition to treat the large ones as liberal-minded people nowadays treat opinions, as all amounting to the same thing really—a yearssmoothed boyish rather than an adult hand.
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