‘She wants me to marry her. Perhaps she might never come back to that breakfast-room again. It was approached from the street by a flight of broad stone steps, leading to a ponderous door, plated with iron, and secured on the inner side by huge bolts, and a lock, with wards of a prodigious size. The room was reeling, or was it that she was going to faint? She recovered herself with a supreme effort. Many’s the young ’un I’ve seen get hisself into just such a knuckleheaded mess all on account of a pretty wench. There was the same airy grace of movement, the same deep brown hair and alabaster skin. Above the housetops it was different. "The end is the most beautiful in English literature.
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