It would be easy enough for me to write an eloquent letter about something else. "I've made no distinction between you, hitherto," answered Wood; "nor shall I do so, unless I'm compelled. She glanced at him and made a dismissive gesture. On the bench was set a quartern measure of gin, a crust of bread, and a slice of cheese. She thought of her father in the garden, and of her aunt with her Patience, as she had seen them—how many ages was it ago? Just one day intervened. Why had he kissed her? What had led him into that? Neither love nor passion— utter blankness so far as reducing the act to terms.
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