It seems only yesterday that she was running down the Avenue, all hair and legs. His was the Latin turn of thinking; he had fallen in love at thirteen, and he was still capable—he prided himself—of falling in love. Drummond took up a cigarette and lit it. She glanced towards her sister, and curiously enough found in her face some faint reflection of her own rather sombre mirth. To his relief, she nodded. “I want to ask you a question,” he said. There were lines in her face that age had not put there. "And so I want the boy out of the way," he concluded. If I’d meant it, my girl, you’d be dead meat. "I am not to be deceived. He drew an awed breath.
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