The joy of being loved thrilled her as nothing before had ever done, a curious abstract joy which had nothing in it at that moment of regret or even pity. "No," replied Jonathan, with a brutal laugh. He drove her to the Beck house, pulling up behind Cathy's red Nissan. The farmer had become obsessed with her and asked her to marry. No blowzy barmaids for him to-day: an American bar-keep to whom he could tell his troubles and receive the proper meed of sympathy. The very carts and vans and cabs that Wellington Street poured out incessantly upon the bridge seemed ripe and good in her eyes. "You hesitate—you are deceiving me. It’s no good. Their journey had made them indolent, the afternoon was warm, and it seemed impossible to breathe a sweeter air.
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