"I don't wish to fit in; things must fit me." Ian smiled to himself.
"He has tasted it all—it's not quite satisfying—revolution next! What a smash-up there'll be! The romantic, the barbaric overlaps. Well, I shall get my picture out of it, and the estate too."
Gaston toyed with his wine-glass, and was deep in thought. Strange to say, he was seeing two pictures. The tomb of Sir Gaston in the little church at Ridley: A gipsy's van on the crest of a common, and a girl standing in the doorway.
ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS:
Down in her heart, loves to be mastered
I don't wish to fit in; things must fit me
Imagination is at the root of much that passes for love
Live and let live is doing good