“I’m glad you’re all right,” he said, “because we want you to do us a favour. ’ ‘What young lady?’ demanded a voice from the back of the hall. Winifred Wood was now in her twentieth year. "A secret is too valuable a commodity to be thrown away. What!— you know so little of that child? She ran away from you. It'll be your own fault if you don't soon get another and a proper young man into the bargain. Wood!—no," replied the turnkey. She followed him about persistently, and succeeded, after a brisk, unchivalrous struggle (in which he pinched and asked her to “cheese it”), in kissing him among the raspberries behind the greenhouse. “Soul to soul. Your second turn is not over, is it?” She laughed a little hardly. “Take off your tunic. This formality irked her: she wanted to play a little, romp.
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