Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love. " "Sir Rowland is my brother," resumed Lady Trafford coldly. “I do not blame him. From the opposite corner under the trees a man with his hat slouched over his eyes stood and glowered at them. Her interest grew as she read, a certain distaste disappeared. Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust. In a little while he and she were talking quite easily and agreeably. But he promised to give me a couple of guineas if I'd ascertain whether it fitted your locks. I have tried not to tell you—tried to be simply your friend.
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