"Let me go," cried Winifred. She reads novels—and history—and all sorts of things. ” She found it difficult to begin thinking, and indeed she was anything but clear what it was she had to think about. Behind the Avenue was a little hill, and an iron-fenced path went over the crest of this to a stile under an elm-tree, and forked there, with one branch going back into the Avenue again. To a woman she might have confided; but to this man, kindly as he was, it was unthinkable. He was sipping a glass of cold gin and water, and smoking a short black pipe.
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