But she had indignantly refused.

The home of her wondrous married life was the home of her widowhood.

If she gave it up, how could she live in peace with the consciousness ever in her brain that the Holy of Holies in which Adrian had worked and died was being profaned by vulgar tread?
Our suggestions were callous, monstrous, everything that could arise from earth-bound non-percipience of sacred things.

We could only prevail upon her to postpone her return to the flat until such time as she was physically strong enough to grapple with changed conditions.
The pink sunbonnet was very near the dark head; both were bending over a book on Doria's knee--_Les Malheurs de Sophie_, which Susan, proud of her French scholarship, had proposed to read to Doria, who having just returned from France was supposed to be the latest authority on the language.

I noticed that the severity of this intellectual communion was mitigated by Susan's favourite black kitten, who, sitting on its little haunches, seemed to be turning over pages rather rapidly.