“You don’t propose, do you,” she said quietly, “that I should take this man for my husband?” “You can drive him away,” Annabel cried. ‘Of course I see that,’ she said impatiently. And, besides, she didn’t just immediately want to make her attempt. She had a feeling at his departure as of an immense cavity, of something enormously gone; she could not tell whether it was infinite regret or infinite relief. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. "Because—because I'm always distrustful of a priest," rejoined Jonathan.
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