“I can’t imagine, Miss Pellissier,” Brendon said, leaning towards her, “whatever made you think of coming to stay if only for a week at a Montague Street boarding-house. A bobbing lantern, crossing the bridge—for she had not drawn the curtain—attracted her attention. It was excellently done, especially as she loved good dinners. . Had he had the child to think of, he might have recovered from his grief at Mary’s death. ” “Yes. ” The hand lingered too long. . The dream flowers and is harvested, and we are left by the wayside, having served our singular purpose in the scheme of progress: as the orange is tossed aside when sucked of its ruddy juice. .
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