He was continually dramatizing the future, anticipating the singular role he had elected to play. The spinsters had purchased one grass-linen tablecloth; the girl and the young man had purchased nothing. “I have a letter for him from his brother, which I was just leaving. The recollection of all her unhappiness, the loveless years, the unending loneliness, the injustice of it, rolled up to her lips in verbal lava. This path, bordered on each side by high privet hedges of the most beautiful green, soon brought them to a stile. To dream and to labour: to you, my labour; to Ruth, my dreams.
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