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Jerking forward, she jabbed backwards. I begin to fear I might be purposely go out of the way. Below her stretched a valley of rich meadowland, of yellow cornfields, and beyond moorland hillside glorious with purple heather and golden gorse. A beachcomber in embryo, and she had lent a hand through habit as much as through pity. “Yes?” “You remember once, how we talked—at a gate on the Downs? We talked about how a girl might get an independent living. Let—it—fall. It was shameful, but again, her mother had prepared her for it.
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