The arrangement had been made by the town matchmaker, a frightening old oak of a man. ‘It needs not that you tell me. The dream flowers and is harvested, and we are left by the wayside, having served our singular purpose in the scheme of progress: as the orange is tossed aside when sucked of its ruddy juice. Gazing into each other's eyes with new-found rapture, neither observed the sudden appearance in the doorway of an elderly woman in travel-stained linen. She had lost her sense of direction, and was among unfamiliar streets. How the deuce, though, am I going to account for her? People will be asking questions when they see her; and if I tell the truth, they'll start to snubbing her. ” Her thoughts went into solution for a time, while she listened to a lark singing.
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