"You've
got to choose," she said. She was trembling. Her voice sounded
just a little hard.
He came and stood beside her. "I want Ann," he said.
She held out her hand to him.
"I'm so glad you said Ann," she laughed.
THE FAWN GLOVES.
Always he remembered her as he saw her first: the little spiritual
face, the little brown shoes pointed downwards, their toes just
touching the ground; the little fawn gloves folded upon her lap. He
was not conscious of having noticed her with any particular
attention: a plainly dressed, childish-looking figure alone on a
seat between him and the setting sun. Even had he felt curious his
shyness would have prevented his deliberately running the risk of
meeting her eyes. Yet immediately he had passed her he saw her
again, quite clearly: the pale oval face, the brown shoes, and,
between them, the little fawn gloves folded one over the other. All
down the Broad Walk and across Primrose Hill, he saw her silhouetted
against the sinking sun. At least that much of her: the wistful
face and the trim brown shoes and the little folded hands; until the
sun went down behind the high chimneys of the brewery beyond Swiss
Cottage, and then she faded.
She was there again the next evening, precisely in the same place.
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