“And to think that it’s not a full year ago since I was a black-hearted rebel school-girl, distressed, puzzled, perplexed, not understanding that this great force of love was bursting its way through me! All those nameless discontents—they were no more than love’s birth-pangs. On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. We remember it. ‘You’ve found her out?’ ‘Tell us at once,’ urged Miss Froxfield. In the present case it did not matter, as there was no one else within earshot.
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