‘One would take it that the house had been ransacked. If only sometimes he would grow angry at her, impatient! But his tender courtesy was unfailing; and under this would be the abiding bitterness of having mistaken gratitude for love. He accepted the glass of wine, and bowed. I don’t want to Bowdlerize Shakespeare. CHAPTER I. Out of all this we have struck a sort of harmony. ’ He clenched his fists and grew red in the face. A black silk furbelowed scarf covered her shoulders; and over the kincob gown hung a yellow satin apron, trimmed with white Persian.
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