My son wanted to marry a woman of thirty in a tobacconist’s shop. . Hitherto it had been qualified by her conception of all life as a compromise, by her new effort to be unexacting of life. He proposed, he wanted to possess her! He loved her. ‘How dull it must have been for you, poor little one. With me behaving as if everything was infinitely matter-of-fact, what could he do? And just then Heaven sent old Manningtree—I didn’t tell you before of the fortunate intervention of Manningtree, did I? He was looking quite infernally distinguished, with a wide crimson ribbon across him—what IS a wide crimson ribbon? Some sort of knight, I suppose. Ennison’s signet-ring had cut nearly to the bone. I love some one else. It hung from the centre of a stout pole, each end of which rested upon the calloused shoulder of a coolie; an ordinary Occidental chair with a foot-rest.
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