His five o’clock shadow was bristly against her fingers. "In this pit," he added, pointing to the chasm below, "your brother is buried. I have been thinking these things over lately, and it seems to me that marriage for a girl is just the supremest thing in life. ‘Maman?’ ‘How touching,’ said a sarcastic voice behind her in French. " "We shall see," rejoined Jonathan, turning carelessly upon his heel. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. “What do you think of that farce?” he exclaimed bitterly. After all, he had the means of setting this tormenting doubt at rest. He was also aware that all his arguments would shatter themselves against her resolutions. But some day she would find a place to love: there would be rosy apples on the boughs, and there would be flurries of snow blowing into her face.
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