" "We may believe as much of that as we please, I suppose," observed the carpenter's wife, with a sneer. He felt like a boy again, the taste for adventures was keen upon his palate, the whole undiscovered world of rhythmical things, of love and poetry and passion seemed again to him a real and actual place, and he himself an adventurer upon the threshold. "I understand," she said. “Yes, but I act older than I look. She is a woman chosen in youth for her beauty and her intelligence. The house was redolent with the smells of cinnamon baking and the stuffed turkey and marinated pork roast. He remembered little whispered speeches of hers, so like the Annabel of Paris, so unlike the woman he loved, a hundred little things should have told him long ago. " Jackson treated this menace with a loud laugh of derision. She would not forgive me.
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