He felt that he might soon be separated—perhaps, for ever—from the fond little creature he held in his arms, whom he had always regarded with the warmest fraternal affection, and the thought of how much she would suffer from the separation so sensibly affected him, that he could not help joining in her grief. They proved all sorts of things perhaps, but they were thick, unequal, pitiful pieces of work. "Can you not love him?" "Love him!" echoed the widow. Even the horns were easing into the concept and the woodwinds in the second movement were particularly well-orchestrated. Heaven knows what dim and tawdry conceptions of passion and desire were in that blond cranium, what romance-begotten dreams of intrigue and adventure! but they sufficed, when presently Ann Veronica went out into the darkling street again, to inspire a flitting, dogged pursuit, idiotic, exasperating, indecent. All that I regret are the wasted years, and I am not sure that I regret them.
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