author - "Harold Bindloss"
It Was Evening Of Early Summer. George Lansing Sat By A Window Of The
Library At Brantholme. The House Belonged To His Cousin; And George,
Having Lately Reached It After Traveling In Haste From Norway, Awaited
The Coming Of Mrs. Sylvia Marston In An Eagerly Expectant Mood. It Was
Characteristic Of Him That His Expression Conveyed Little Hint Of His
Feelings, For George Was A Quiet, Self-Contained Man; But He Had Not
Been So Troubled By Confused Emotions Since Sylvia Married Marston
Three Years Earlier. Marston Had Taken Her To Canada; But Now He Was
Dead, And Sylvia, Returning To England, Had Summoned George, Who Had
Been Appointed Executor Of Her Husband's Will.
It Was Evening Of Early Summer. George Lansing Sat By A Window Of The
Library At Brantholme. The House Belonged To His Cousin; And George,
Having Lately Reached It After Traveling In Haste From Norway, Awaited
The Coming Of Mrs. Sylvia Marston In An Eagerly Expectant Mood. It Was
Characteristic Of Him That His Expression Conveyed Little Hint Of His
Feelings, For George Was A Quiet, Self-Contained Man; But He Had Not
Been So Troubled By Confused Emotions Since Sylvia Married Marston
Three Years Earlier. Marston Had Taken Her To Canada; But Now He Was
Dead, And Sylvia, Returning To England, Had Summoned George, Who Had
Been Appointed Executor Of Her Husband's Will.