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It was as if Grace-church Street, with all its shops, its magazines, and ceaseless throng of passengers, were stretched from the Middlesex to the Surrey shore. “I just wanted you to see that the time will come when I must leave you, and the time is coming soon. But I waited in vain. Sure, I lose one occasionally—if he stays in New York. It seems to me just talk; it seems to me like the fancy of a dream. The air was sweet with the perfume of flowers, and the melody of murmuring insects, the blue sky was cloudless, the heat of the sun was tempered by the heather-scented west wind. The blades on the top spun faster and faster. You—It’s jolly of you to confide in me.
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