He walked in her direction. The three clerks fought for the only window, and saw her whisked into a hansom. The world, she discovered, with these matters barred had no particular place for her at all, nothing for her to do, except a functionless existence varied by calls, tennis, selected novels, walks, and dusting in her father’s house. She was as lovely in the spirit as in the flesh. Small wonder she had learned to be self-reliant. It was as if her finite human brain could only store a limit of information, details like hair color and fingernail shape easily jettisoned to make room for the nuances of a grin or the emotion of a shoulder blade. If only this man had been her father! The world would have meant nothing; the island would have been wide enough. At the same time he comprehended that she was as pure and lovely as the white orchid of Borneo and that she did not carry that ridiculous shield called false modesty. Glancing at the finger-post over the cage, which has been described as situated at the outskirts of the village, and seeing no directions to Dollis Hill, he made fresh inquiries as to where it lay, from an elderly man, who was standing with another countryman near the little prison. I called myself Anna. She danced with two others. “You are a thousand times more beautiful,” he said, “than anything else could be.
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