‘Mad as hatters!’ ‘It is you who is mad,’ mademoiselle told him crossly. "These writer chaps are queer birds. Let him be sure. She felt herself getting into a corner. Any man might have endeavoured to protect himself in this fashion, a man with no one to care, with an unnameable terror at the thought (as if it mattered!) of being buried in alien earth, far from the familiar places he loved. It had ceased raining, but the atmosphere was moist and chill, and the ground deluged by the recent showers. There was no way to warn her of his presence without startling her. His mother used to live i' this village, just down yonder; but when her son took to bad ways, she went distracted,—and now she's i' Bedlam, I've heerd. You don’t know the thoughts we have; the things we can do and say. “You see,” said Ann Veronica, staring before her at the window-sash, “that’s the form my question takes at the present time. You care for me a little, I know. She dreaded living off the land again, like an animal, as she had done for dozens of years at a stretch. You have been burning paper, I see. That poor child, trying to escape, and not knowing how. The haste to send her upon her way now had but one interpretation—the recognition of his own immediate danger, the fear that if this tender association continued, he would end in offering her a calamity quite as impossible as that which had happened—the love of a man who was in all probability older than her father! The hurt was no less intensive because it was so ridiculous.
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