movies.

Now their hands are clasped, but they do not notice each other. For
they do not know where they are; they imagine they are acting upon the
screen. It is a mistake which charms and consoles them both. "How
beautiful I am," thinks Anna drowsily, watching Miss Gish. "And how
elegant to be in love."

Later Anna will say to herself: "Other people's lives are like that."

On the way home she sat smiling and dreaming. The horse ran briskly
through the night mist; and the wheels, rumbling over the ground,
turned up the thoughts of simple Thomas Frye, only to plow them under
again.

"Ann," he said when they were more than half-way home, "don't you care
for me . . . any more?" As he spoke, he cut at the black trees with
his long whip.

"Yes, I do, Tom."

"As much as you did?"

"Just as much."

"More, Ann?"

"Maybe."

"Then . . . will you? Say, will you, Ann?"