Little woman, you have been brave enough before. Yet her aunt, with a ringed hand flitting to her lips and a puzzled, worried look in her eyes, deaf to all this riot of warmth and flitting desire, was playing Patience—playing Patience, as if Dionysius and her curate had died together. Of this I'm certain, however, she was much too good for him, and was never meant to be a journeyman carpenter's wife, still less what is she now. But I’m thinking as how I’d best report to the major over this here shooting. She began rubbing it with her pocket-handkerchief. The woman I wanted was another man's wife. “Thousands! Ugh! And found it a worse slavery. You understand what I mean. Indeed, it seemed inevitable that she must clear it up with his assistance, or not at all. She yielded it without protest, as though unconsciously. The cloth was removed, and Wood, drawing the table as near the window as possible—for it was getting dusk —put on his spectacles, and opened that sacred volume from which the best consolation in affliction is derived, and left the lovers—for such they may now be fairly termed—to their own conversation. “You might at least,” she murmured, “have invented a more romantic reason. It is for that reason that this novel begins with her there, and neither earlier nor later, for it is the history of this crisis and its consequences that this novel has to tell.
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