Look in the small hide-bound book that he keeps in his boot. “I think that I will leave this letter for him,” she said. She was sick of herself, of her life, of everything but him; and for him all her masked and hidden being was crying out. It was an odd room, used principally for the reception of guests and visiting dignitaries, packed from end to end with ill-assorted sofas and padded chairs. "You will make me the happiest of mankind," cried the woollen-draper, falling on his knees, and seizing her hand, which he devoured with kisses. Once in the room, the door locked, the sense of loneliness had dropped away from her as the mists used to drop away from the mountain in the morning. Very romantic and all that.
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