For Anne
was again a dreamer of dreams, albeit a grim shape of
fear went with her night and day to shadow and darken
her visions.
Gilbert was accustomed to refer to himself as "an old
married man." But he still looked upon Anne with the
incredulous eyes of a lover. He couldn't wholly
believe yet that she was really his. It MIGHT be only
a dream after all, part and parcel of this magic house
of dreams. His soul still went on tip-toe before her,
lest the charm be shattered and the dream dispelled.
"Anne," he said slowly, "lend me your ears. I want to
talk with you about something."
Anne looked across at him through the fire-lit gloom.
"What is it?" she asked gaily. "You look fearfully
solemn, Gilbert. I really haven't done anything
naughty today. Ask Susan."
"It's not of you--or ourselves--I want to talk. It's
about Dick Moore."
"Dick Moore?" echoed Anne, sitting up alertly. "Why,
what in the world have you to say about Dick Moore?"
"I've been thinking a great deal about him lately. Do
you remember that time last summer I treated him for
those carbuncles on his neck?"
"Yes--yes.
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