It seems to me just talk; it seems to me like the fancy of a dream. “I’ll run, too,” she volunteered. "The Captain's in such a desperate hurry, that there's no time for love-making. “Annabel! Why, what on earth have you been doing to yourself, child?” she exclaimed. The spinsters—who on the morrow would vanish out of the girl's life for ever—had already left their imprint upon her imagination. Her mother brewed potions to scent her hair, sweet balms of anise for her lips and hands, told her wonderful secrets, some decidedly un-Christian. We needn’t try and give ourselves airs. “He is one of our guests—perhaps I should say boarders here, but he seldom returns before dinner-time. I just want him, and no one else will do.
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