"Oh!" she gasped. One might have said that these trees grieved for their native soil; and, grieving, refused to bear. Ann Veronica looked down at her fingers on the claret-colored table-cloth. “For seven years,” said Ann Veronica, “I have been trying to keep myself from thinking about love. But he knew. The vicomte must be well known to those high-born who have gone to England. The ambitions of his life, and they were many, seemed to lie far away, broken up dreams in some outside world where the way was rough and the sky always grey. Somehow her walk home with him had been transmogrified into a melodramatic rejection, a slamming. A white man, wandering about the streets of Canton at night, was a challenge to such a catastrophe. .
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