She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. You don’t have to live forever to understand that. “Poor little Miniver! What can she be but what she is?. He meant to take her out of this room, perhaps even out of the house. If he adhered to this policy—to keep away from her inconspicuously—she would forget the name by night, and to-morrow even the bearer of it would sink below the level of recollection. ‘I have only borrowed it. She stepped into his arms. His little doll. And God had let him do it! He was—and now he perfectly understood that he was—treading the queerest labyrinth a man had ever entered. The sing-song girl rose and meekly pattered out of the office into the night. If only he had known it, sympathy was almost entirely with him.
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