“Arthur, this is Miss Pellissier—Mr. . He cupped her small hands in the bowl of his large ones and reassured her in the kindest manner, saying, “You will have the finest life that Florence has to offer. “Why can’t you tell people that you are what you are? Why all the secrecy?” She looked beyond the farmhouse. A tourist caravan of four pole-chairs jogged along a narrow street. Somebody to whom she would be necessary, who for days would have to depend upon her for the needs of life. For a moment he believed this merely a new phase of the dream. She began to draw on her gloves thoughtfully.
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