His was the Latin turn of thinking; he had fallen in love at thirteen, and he was still capable—he prided himself—of falling in love. Oh! and love—love! We’ve had so splendid a time, and fought our fight and won. There was a confused impression of livery carriages and whips with white favors, people fussily wanting other people to get in before them, and then the church. A wave of pity went over him—pity for the patient, the girl, and his friend. Through an open door was a glimpse of the bathroom—a vision of luxury, out of which Annabel herself, in a wonderful dressing-gown and followed by a maid presently appeared. He's the only native I trust in these parts.
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