“You were born for great things,” he said huskily. Every window, from the groundfloor to the garret had its occupant, and the roofs were covered with spectators. She got up, drew up her blind, and stared out of window at a dawn-cold vision of chimneys for a time, and then went and sat on the edge of her bed. It will take at least three weeks. He made some obvious comments on the wide view warming toward its autumnal blaze that spread itself in hill and valley, wood and village, below. At least, you are one, and I am disguised like one. “I thought you wanted to have a talk to me,” she said.
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