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There was no one at home, and I was coming away when I saw that the door was open. The flowers upon the mantel-shelf were withered and drooping—she had gathered them. He occupied one of the smaller houses near the station. Winifred, accordingly, left the room, and a servant being despatched to the nearest tavern, soon afterwards returned with a crown bowl of the ambrosian fluid. Something about this woman rather reminds me of our hostess. This was no night for the indulgence of dreamy musing. A vague desire to justify himself ruffled her father. She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. .
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