“It was perhaps my fault. ‘Oh, dearie me, you make me feel a traitor. Plote was sleeping or deaf. Her hand grasped it firmly, and she pushed herself forward. It was warm, shielding, comforting, and what was more, full of understanding. If you don’t like it, I won’t be mad, I promise. "These writer chaps are queer birds. "Don't go, I beg of you!" she implored. And then suddenly—a relief. . He took a handful of almonds and raisins that she held out to him—for both these young people had given up the practice of going out for luncheon—and kept her hand for a moment to kiss her finger-tips. "Who isn't it like?" he asked, endeavouring to gain possession of the drawing, which, af the sound of his footstep, she crushed between her fingers.
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