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 could not answer for themselves. He was instantly up in arms.

It really is extraordinary, said a Woman who Understood, that you can make that cypress seem an individual, when in reality all cypresses are so exactly alike.

And though the bit of calculated flattery had come so near to saying the right, true, thing, Sanderson flushed as though she had slighted a friend beneath his very nose. Abruptly he passed in front of her and turned the picture to the wall.

Almost as queer, he answered rudely, copying her silly emphasis, as that you should have imagined individuality in your husband, Madame, when in reality all men are so exactly alike!

Since the only thing that differentiated her husband from the mob was the money for which she had married him, Sanderson's relations with that particular family terminated on the spot, chance of prospective orders with it. His sensitiveness, perhaps, was morbid. At any rate the way to reach his heart lay through his trees. He might be said to love trees. He certainly drew a splendid inspiration from them, and the source of a man's inspiration, be it music, religion, or a woman, is never a safe thing to criticize.

I do think, perhaps, it was just a little extravagant, dear, said Mrs. Bittacy, referring to the cedar check, when we want a lawnmower so badly too. But, as it gives you such pleasure—

It reminds me of a certain day, Sophia, replied the old gentleman, looking first proudly at herself, then fondly at the picture, now long gone by. It reminds me of another tree—that Kentish lawn in the spring, birds singing in the lilacs, and some one