"What shall we do, Poll?" hesitated Edgeworth Bess. “And yet you still live, Butterfly. Give me my pistol and my dagger. It’s an emerald. It was from Brendon. My mind is full of ideas and images that I have been cherishing and accumulating—dreams of travelling side by side, of lunching quietly together in some jolly restaurant, of moonlight and music and all that side of life, of seeing you dressed like a queen and shining in some brilliant throng—mine; of your looking at flowers in some old-world garden, our garden—there are splendid places to be got down in Surrey, and a little runabout motor is quite within my means. " "But why? In the name of God, why? Your flesh and blood! Have you never loved anything?" "Are you indeed my daughter's lawful husband?" Enschede countered.
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