She received him in the parlour, but
their evenings commonly ended in her little studio, whither some
errand took them, or some intrusion of the other boarders banished
them. There he read to her poems or long chapters out of the
essayists or romancers; or else they sat and talked about the
strange things they had noticed in themselves that were like the
things they found in their books. Once when they had talked a long
while in this strain, he told how when he first saw her he thought
she was very proud and cold.
She laughed gaily. "And I used to be afraid of you," she said. "You
used to be always reading there in your little office. Do you think
I'm very proud now?"
"Are you very much afraid of me now?" he retorted.
They laughed together.
"Isn't it strange," she said, "how little we really know about
people in the world?"
"Yes," he answered. "I wonder if it will ever be different. I've
been wrong about nearly every one I've met since I came to Boston."
"And I have too!" she cried, with that delight in the coincidence of
experience which the young feel so keenly.
He had got the habit, with his growing ease in her presence, of
walking up and down the room, while she sat, with her arms lifted
and clasped above her head, forgetful of everything but the things
they were saying, and followed him with her eyes.
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