And now, my love," she added, with a relenting look, "I'm content to make up our quarrel. She lay still for a long time, and her mind resumed at a more tolerable pace. She and Courtlaw drove homewards together. “Do you think it is fair of you to persecute me just now?” “It is not persecution, Anna,” he answered gently. I’ve been thinking, you know—I’m not sure that primarily the perception of beauty isn’t just intensity of feeling free from pain; intensity of perception without any tissue destruction. She got up, put the neat cuffs she had made into her work-basket, and went to the bureau for the little cards in the morocco case.
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