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He took his social pleasures once a year in Hong-Kong, after Easter. Then she looked at her aunt, and traced with a curious eye the careful arrangement of her hair, her sharp nose, the little drooping lines of mouth and chin and cheek. Oh, I’ve loved love, dear! I’ve loved love and you, and the glory of you; and the great time is over, and I have to go carefully and bear children, and—take care of my hair—and when I am done with that I shall be an old woman. The situation bothered him considerably. This formality irked her: she wanted to play a little, romp. I am not afraid that you may try to make love to me. Montague Hill.
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