Ramage went up the Avenue, and she hurried along the path with a beating heart and a disagreeable sense of unsolved problems in her mind. Of course there were goats. But his grief was of short duration. “You were born for great things,” he said huskily. I just want him, and no one else will do. How long he continued thus he scarcely knew; but just before dawn, he managed to regain his legs, and, crawling up a bank, perceived he was within a quarter of a mile of Tottenham. All the world about her seemed to be—how can one put it?—in wrappers, like a house when people leave it in the summer. Beyond was a field sloping steeply upwards, and at the top a small pine plantation. Diane did not hear the footsteps on her brick patio or the audible click of the back door lock being compromised. As he proceeded, other painful reminiscences were aroused.
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