"Our summer evenings
will be over before then, Mr. Russell."
"Why?" he asked.
"Good heavens!" she said. "THERE'S laconic eloquence: almost a
proposal in a single word! Never mind, I shan't hold you to it.
But to answer you: well, I'm always looking ahead, and somehow I
usually see about how things are coming out."
"Yes," he said. "I suppose most of us do; at least it seems as
if we did, because we so seldom feel surprised by the way they do
come out. But maybe that's only because life isn't like a play
in a theatre, and most things come about so gradually we get used
to them."
"No, I'm sure I can see quite a long way ahead," she insisted,
gravely. "And it doesn't seem to me as if our summer evenings
could last very long. Something'll interfere--somebody will, I
mean--they'll SAY something----"
"What if they do?"
She moved her shoulders in a little apprehensive shiver. "It'll
change you," she said. "I'm just sure something spiteful's going
to happen to me. You'll feel differently about--things."
"Now, isn't that an idea!" he exclaimed.
"It will," she insisted. "I know something spiteful's going to
happen!"
"You seem possessed by a notion not a bit flattering to me," he
remarked.
"Oh, but isn't it? That's just what it is! Why isn't it?"
"Because it implies that I'm made of such soft material the
slightest breeze will mess me all up.
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