“It would have been rash and unwise,” she said at the end of a meditation. I sometimes laid away my father's clothes in his trunk. She carried herself well, whereas her brother slouched, and there was a certain aristocratic dignity about her that she had acquired through her long engagement to a curate of family, a scion of the Wiltshire Edmondshaws. “I’m sorry. Think—think of that engagement!” Their talk had come to eloquent silences that contradicted all he had to say. And it’s like the petals falling from a flower. He had seldom been more perturbed. Even our coarseness.
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