“There is my aunt,” she said. And the woollen-draper departed. " "Thank'ee,—thank'ee. Beyond was a chaise longue, covered with cushions and shawls laid anyhow across it, together with a discarded tapestry in the making, and a scattering of woollen threads about it. Life is a patchwork of impressions, of vanishing personalities. She was supposed to be reading at home, and after breakfast she strolled into the vegetable garden, and having taken up a position upon the staging of a disused greenhouse that had the double advantage of being hidden from the windows of the house and secure from the sudden appearance of any one, she resumed the reading of Mr. The Supper at Mr. When she had finished the first tale, there was a sense of disappointment.
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