"Oh! never mind him: he'll take no harm! Come with me into the parlour. Good riddance. The wind blew in fitful gusts, and scattered the yellow leaves from the elms and horse-chestnuts. And put ‘em in little books for remembrance. Gay," he added, turning to the poet. Anna held out her hand, and he paused. It seemed to her that it was her duty to get up and clamor to go home to her room, to protest against his advances as an insult. A queer game this: he could not move directly as in an ordinary case of manhunt. But some day she would find a place to love: there would be rosy apples on the boughs, and there would be flurries of snow blowing into her face.
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