"Three hundred and fifty-four West Van Buren Street, care S.C.Hanson." He wrote it carefully down and got out the purse again.

"You'll be at home if I come around Monday night ?" he said.
"I think so," she answered.
How true it is that words are but the vague shadows of the volumes we mean.

Little audible links, they are, chaining together great inaudible feelings and purposes.

Here were these two, bandying little phrases, drawing purses, looking at cards, and both unconscious of how inarticulate all their real feelings were.

Neither was wise enough to be sure of the working of the mind of the other.