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But for me it doesn’t matter. “The young women of Jane Austen’s time didn’t get into this sort of scrape! At least—one thinks so. She stepped backwards. ” “Thanks to me,” he repeated, puzzled. Little did I imagine at the time that it was my own father to whom he referred. Her gratitude swelled within her. She started at the falling of a leaf, at the lumbering of a cow through the hedge. He drove her home that night, kissing her again and again at stoplights. ” “Why?” asked Hetty. He was disquieted. The blast shrieked, as if exulting in its wrathful mission. The reward is mine.
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