She followed him about persistently, and succeeded, after a brisk, unchivalrous struggle (in which he pinched and asked her to “cheese it”), in kissing him among the raspberries behind the greenhouse. She realized more and more the quality of the brink upon which she stood—the dreadful readiness with which in certain moods she might plunge, the unmitigated wrongness and recklessness of such a self-abandonment. Clotilde rushed out of the house, carrying her boy and tugging her girl by the ear. Sheppard. Immediately a feathered hat emerged, under which a familiar countenance was visible.
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