“Those things are not for me just at present. ’ A strangled sob escaped her as his thumb dug cruelly into the soft flesh of her wrist. “What a little brick!” he murmured. You do not believe his statement?" "I do not," replied Winifred. He sat alone in his brother’s old car night after night that summer, staring blankly at the red sky beyond the abandoned farmhouse where she had once shown him her secrets. Her aunt arrived about halfpast ten, in black and with an unusually thick spotted veil. Of this boy she had only caught a glimpse;—but that glimpse was sufficient to satisfy her it was her son,—and, if she could have questioned her own instinctive love, she could not question her antipathy, when she beheld, partly concealed by a pillar immediately in the rear of the woollen-draper, the dark figure and truculent features of Jonathan Wild. He drew her away from this thought.
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