” “I say, you know, you have some pluck. I’ve been waiting all my life to get out of this town. I once might have married you for your beauty,—now I marry you for your wealth. He held her eyes. ” “I am convinced of it,” she answered. “Queer letters he writes,” she said. She found herself again in the presence of some element in life about which she had been trained not to think, about which she was perhaps instinctively indisposed to think; something which jarred, in spite of all her mental resistance, with all her preconceptions of a clean and courageous girl walking out from Morningside Park as one walks out of a cell into a free and spacious world. I know he is dead. Not then. All they left it was the moon and stars.
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