Think better of it. “We’ve all been mixing our ideas, and we’ve got intellectual hot coppers— every blessed one of us. Then her eyes flashed. Then she fell into a fever of remorse for the habit of bad language she had acquired. He beheld the grey tower of Willesden Church, embosomed in its grove of trees, now clothed, in all the glowing livery of autumn. She taught me how to crochet and cross stitch. The three young men exchanged expressive glances. The eminent painter had handsome, expressive features, an aquiline nose, and a good deal of dignity in his manner. She was a clever girl, the best of her year in the High School, and she made a valiant fight for Somerville or Newnham but her father had met and argued with a Somerville girl at a friend’s dinner-table and he thought that sort of thing unsexed a woman. Not if I read her aright. He was not addicted to monologue, and the only audible comment he permitted himself at first upon a universe that was evidently anything but satisfactory to him that afternoon, was one compact and entirely unassigned “Damn!” The word must have had some gratifying quality, because he repeated it.
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