The path narrowed just there and gave her an excuse for quitting Jerome's arm.

She did so with a gentle murmur of explanation, for she could do nothing abruptly, then went on before him swiftly.

Her white shawl hung from her head to her waist in sharp slants.

She moved through the dusk with the evanescent flit of a white moth.
"Of course," stammered Jerome, painfully and boyishly, "I--knew--you would not care if--I did not come.

It was not as if--I had thought you--would." Lucina said nothing to that either.