Outside stood a stocky, combat boot-clad girl of seventeen with a teased mass of spiky bottle-black hair. ‘What are you after this time, miss?’ asked Jack. She came in while he was still in the throes, conviction battling with commonsense, his own apprehension. Manning,” she said, “for a time—Will you tell no one? Will you keep this—our secret? I’m doubtful—Will you please not even tell my aunt?” “As you will,” he said. Wood made no reply; but, hastily kissing his weeping daughter, and bidding her be of good cheer, hurried off. It was better even than the hymn-singing. "No matter," replied Sheppard. “You have been very kind to me,” she said.
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