“Ciao, Fragolina. By the time he had reached the summit of this hill, he had lost all trace of them; and the ardour of the chase having in some measure subsided, he began to reproach himself for his folly, in having wandered—as he conceived—so far out of his course. Heaven knows why! They don’t marry most of us off now until high up in the twenties. You make a game with me, imbecile. Now, abruptly, they were real again, though very distant, and she had come to say farewell to them across one sundering year. A queer nut. Her sleepless night had left her languid but not stupefied, and for an hour or so the work distracted her altogether from her troubles. Stanley poured wine.
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