At Christmas he gave her a set of a small edition of Meredith’s novels, very prettily bound in flexible leather, being guided in the choice of an author, as he intimated, rather by her preferences than his own. "Mercy on us!" cried he, as a thrill of apprehension ran through his frame. I can't pump out all there is to these compositions. “I wouldn’t have been without this trip for worlds. It was shameful, but again, her mother had prepared her for it. Afterward, one afternoon, he hovered about her, and came and sat beside her and talked of beauty and the riddle of beauty for some time. Then a light seemed to break in upon him. I believe—I believe that I must risk it.
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