" "I will. Almost at once she had comprehended that she was expected to write down her name and address, which she did, in slanting cobwebby lettering, perhaps a trifle laboriously. Her cheeks burned for a moment or two when she reached the street, although she held her head upright and walked blithely, even humming to herself fragments of an old French song. He drew her away from this thought. For in life there is but one hour: an epic or an idyll: all other hours lead up to and down from it. ‘Yes, only that this consolation he had found before he married my mother. “Here goes,” he said. They are blinded to all fine and subtle things —they look at life with bloodshot eyes and dilated nostrils. He was holding the ring to the light, and narrowly examining the inscription.
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