Then she glanced at the cards again, over which her aunt’s many-ringed hand played, and then at the rather weak, rather plump face that surveyed its operations. "Can you not love him?" "Love him!" echoed the widow. She never questioned the motives of the characters; she had neither the ability nor the conceit for that; but she could and often did correct his lapses in colour. The ragged edge. The lamp was spreading soot over everything and the reek of kerosene was stronger than usual. These were so outside her experience that she found it possible to thrust them almost out of sight by saying they would be “all right” in confident tones to herself. "Souls," she answered, drily.
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