“I think,” he said, “I was a little too mystical about beauty the other day. She had been built for canvas and oil-lamps, and this new thingumajig that kept her nose snoring at eight knots when normally she was able to boil along at ten, and these unblinking things they called lamps (that neither smoked nor smelled), irked and threatened to ruin her temper. She was my first love. S. I want to make my own selection. But I will disappoint you. She had come across the wicked South Seas which were still infested with cannibals; she had seen drunkenness and called men beachcombers; who was this moment as innocent as a babe, and in the next uttered some bitter wisdom it had taken a thousand years of philosophy to evolve. “No lecturing, Anna!” she exclaimed. "Can you not love him?" "Love him!" echoed the widow.
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