“My dear Anna,” he answered. She quickened her pace, and so did he, talking at her slightly averted ear. " The doctor sent her a sharp, quizzical glance. I want to talk to him and go about with him. She knew the story only imperfectly, and followed it now with a passionate and deepening interest. Too late. Had he had the child to think of, he might have recovered from his grief at Mary’s death. How the deuce, though, am I going to account for her? People will be asking questions when they see her; and if I tell the truth, they'll start to snubbing her. It arises, I think, from an over developed sense of humour. It was the beginning and the end of the transaction. She has already forgotten it.
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