She realized that no man had ever placed a mantle of respect upon her as Sebastian did; respect for more than just her pretty face and her now lost ability to bear children. “That is your sister’s name. She’s naïve, and yet uncannily shrewd at times, and you daren’t rely on anything she says. "I am no man's mistress," answered the widow, crimsoning to her temples, but preserving her meek deportment, and humble tone. The road which wound by Westbourne Green, gave him a full view of the hill of Hampstead with its church, its crest of houses, and its villas peeping from out the trees. That a longing of hers should be realized in this strange fashion was difficult to believe: it vaguely suggested something of a trap. They have no ideas what to do with us.
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