” She laid her hand softly upon his. She flung herself back into the bare little room, cold, empty, comfortless. "Why do you ask?" rejoined the other haughtily. "You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester. That shining slope of snow, and how we talked of death! We might have died! Even when we are old, when we are rich as we may be, we won’t forget the tune when we cared nothing for anything but the joy of one another, when we risked everything for one another, when all the wrappings and coverings seemed to have fallen from life and left it light and fire. ” They talked for a while in somewhat dreamy fashion, Anna especially being more silent than usual. .
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