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. “I believe it is. When he reached the happy ending, he waited. “You were there, were you?” He laughed a little impatiently. What might it have been?’ Mrs Sindlesham shook her head helplessly. He ushered them with an amiable flat hand into a minute apartment with a little gas-stove, a silk crimson-covered sofa, and a bright little table, gay with napery and hot-house flowers. You are much more like what I was then. For a few days she was fascinated by the place, exploring the moldy rooms, the weird treasures hiding in forgotten trousseaus. She spoke readily enough, but there was a new timidity in her manner. Spurlock looked up.
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