“Because I hate you!” She spat. She made herself serenely unaware of his existence, though it may be it was his presence that sent her by the field detour instead of by the direct path up the Avenue. I never met your sister in Paris, but I heard about her more than once. Wood, and you'll find that I've spoken the truth. You'll find those young ladies extremely agreeable acquaintances. She was greatly exercised by the problem of confiding in the Widgetts; they were dears, and she talked away two evenings with Constance without broaching the topic; she made some vague intimations in letters to Miss Miniver that Miss Miniver failed to mark. Her roving eagerness was at all times shaded with shyness, reserve, repression. “You must come and see me some afternoon,” she said to him.
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