He could remember when women laid away their gowns in lavender—as this girl's mother had. Hitherto it had been qualified by her conception of all life as a compromise, by her new effort to be unexacting of life. He was twenty-nine at the time, practically an old man. Leonardo would not have married her. There was a round table covered, not with the usual “tapestry” cover, but with a plain green cloth that went passably with the wall-paper. Anna turned round with a start, which was almost of guilt, the poker still in her hand. "There's nothing in his clothes. I could tell it was Italian, you see. ‘I don’t want a hue and cry after me, I thank you. Just now the waterchestnuts…. But his grief was of short duration. ’” Anna made no remark.
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