He said that he would offer it to his beloved aunty—Mother Schuyler, of course—begging to let it ornament the wall of my room.
My room?
It is “my room” for a few days yet.
I thought it exceedingly sweet.
The wall is duskily red. The effect would be superb.
When I announced to him that our leave would take place on the approaching fourth, he started as if he had received a stroke.
“So soon?” he said.
“Yes,” I said, turning my uneasy face.
“We are only beginning to understand each other.”
“I am a bird of passage, as you know. I have to fly on my road.”