“What a hypocrite you are. She had first picked up the fiddle back when it was still called a viol, that was how long she had been at it. See? Down we should rush in a foam—in a cloud of snow—to flight and a dream. Listen to me, Winifred. Some of the delicate colour which the afternoon walk had brought into her cheeks had already returned. . Mauled about!” She fell to rubbing her insulted lips savagely with the back of her hand. In regard to yourself, you've had a very narrow escape. After an affectionate parting with Winifred, Thames was conducted by the carpenter to his sleeping apartment—a comfortable cosy chamber; such a one, in short, as can only be met with in the country, with its dimity-curtained bed, its sheets fragrant of lavender, its clean white furniture, and an atmosphere breathing of freshness.
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