Surely she could ignore him. As they kissed goodbye, she hoped that he felt the same reluctance to part. She tried not to pant, not to reveal herself, and she began to shake. She carried herself well, whereas her brother slouched, and there was a certain aristocratic dignity about her that she had acquired through her long engagement to a curate of family, a scion of the Wiltshire Edmondshaws. ‘Tchah! So you’re the whelp’s girl, are you? Suppose you’ve nothing but that villainous French in your tongue. It’s not a bit of good pretending there’s any Higher Truth or wonderful principle in this business.
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