You must forgive the poet’s license I take. Hitherto she had seen it chiefly in pictures and other works of art, incidentally, and as a thing taken out of life. A tarnish of constraint that had recently spread over her intercourse with Capes vanished again. He was almost frightening in silhouette, his hair uncontrollable under the best of circumstances, but that changed when you saw his face. I didn’t! I didn’t! After all—” For a time her mind ran on daintiness and its defensive restraints as though it was the one desirable thing. It's gin—a liquor you used to like.
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