For a time she looked at no more apartments, and walked through gaunt and ill-cleaned streets, through the sordid under side of life, perplexed and troubled, ashamed of her previous obtuseness. ‘Here, miss,’ came faintly from somewhere close at hand. Then she looked up the sweep of pine-trees to the towering sunlit cliffs and the high heaven above and then back to his face. His heart hammered in his chest. My son wanted to marry a woman of thirty in a tobacconist’s shop. Here was a thundering blow. She returned to these latter, and at the back of her mind, as she looked them over again, was a very distinct resolve to quote them after the manner of Miss Garvice at the very first opportunity. She turned towards the door, and had taken a pace towards it when it was flung open. Marry me.
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