"I can't say I did," replied Wood, somewhat reluctantly; "what with the confusion incident to the storm, and the subsequent press of business, I put it off till it was too late. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. Suddenly he burst into wild laughter; but equally as suddenly something strangled the sound in his throat. He crawled underneath the covers with her. She climbed back into the window an hour before sunrise. I only arrived when everybody was coming away. The freezing water lapped around her ankles as she ran along its edge, marveling at the thousands of tiny white spiral shells the tide had brought in. Easily.
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