"The end is the most beautiful in English literature. I never met your sister in Paris, but I heard about her more than once. ’ ‘You certain? She’s a thought too volatile for my money. It was the one that she had sworn she’d throw out, if only Julian had not liked it so much. . But go on. There was a certain amount of disputation, and meanwhile she went on at school. Passing at a glance over the whole of the intervening period; leaving in the words of the poet, —The growth untried Of that wide gap— we shall resume our narrative at the beginning of June, 1715. Oh, and weeks and months of thought and feeling there are bottled up too.
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