"That's for Winifred," vociferated the Amazon, bringing the cudgel heavily upon his shoulder. His gangling body was clothed in rusty twill trousers and a long black seersucker coat, buttoned to the throat, around which ran a collar which would have marked him the world over as a man of the Word. It was a great relief to arrive at last at that pause when she could say to her aunt, “Now, dear?” and rise and hold back the curtain through the archway. Something that is born anew each time we meet, and pines when we are separated. "If any one's to blame, it's me.
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