Her eyes filled as she thought of him, the image of his laughing countenance coming into her mind, to be swiftly followed by a vision of the blood running from his cut hand. The soil was identical, the climate; still, they would not bear the Olympian fruit, with its purple-lined jacket and its snow-white pulp. If she returns to the house from which we took her, her companions will laugh at her and smother her with ridicule. “Here, dis is for you. You want me to be clean. We can love on a snow cornice, we can love over a pail of whitewash. Every one looked at Anna. One thing—he could be thankful for that—the peak of his misfortunes had been reached; the world might come to an end now and not matter in the least.
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