"Would you rather be alone?" "No. She is Bohemian to the fingertips. The haste to send her upon her way now had but one interpretation—the recognition of his own immediate danger, the fear that if this tender association continued, he would end in offering her a calamity quite as impossible as that which had happened—the love of a man who was in all probability older than her father! The hurt was no less intensive because it was so ridiculous. He had studied alchemy and astronomy, was a capable painter, and even wrote music. She saw her mother, her pale face, a woman in a white robe, calling to her from a sun drenched balcony. “So far you’ve got me and I you. But it was only six-thirty. We are very poor, but manage to squeeze a little happiness out of each day.
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