There was a very small night-breeze abroad, and a sun-baked rose below nodded its head as one who knew unutterable secrets.

Was it possible that Dick should turn his thoughts from her work and his own and descend to the degradation of Suzanne and the conscript?
He could not! The rose nodded its head and one leaf therewith.

It looked like a naughty little devil scratching its ear.
Dick could not, 'because,' thought Maisie, 'he is mind,--mine,--mine.

He said he was.

I'm sure I don't care what he does.