“You have been mine before,
How long ago I may not know:
But just when at that swallow’s soar
Your neck turned so ...
Some veil did fall—I knew it all of yore.”
“And now,” she exclaimed, springing up and turning to her husband, “I’m going to leave you and the Professor together to talk out all your old things without me intervening! Besides I’ve got the bread to make,” she added with a swift, gay smile in my direction, “that bread you called delicious. I generally do it of a morning.”
With a swinging motion of her lithe young body she was gone; the room seemed strangely empty; the disfiguring marks upon her girlish face were already forgotten; and a sense of companionship within me turned somehow lonely and bereft.
CHAPTER XVIII
To Memory