"I was about to add," continued Gay, "that my opera shall have no music except the good old ballad tunes. She put down the sketch-books and apparatus she had brought with her, pulled out her stool, and sat down. There's the paragraph. “But about last night. Sometimes I tremble, Anna, to think how near I came to passing through life without a single glimpse, a moment’s revelation of this greatest and most awful of mysteries, the mystery of primaeval nature. I could make away with him at once, as you are about to make away with your nephew, Sir Rowland,—but that wouldn't serve my turn. There was hope for me then. Even in her painting smock and with her disarranged hair, the likeness between the two girls was marvellous.
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