They were silent for a time. “I knew that you waited at the farmhouse. “I’m six hundred and forty-eight, John, but guess how old I look? Fifteen. As for this infatuation—it’s like some obsession, some magic thing laid upon you. You would be alarmed of how sulphurous it is, how sickeningly sweet. She had denied it with vigor, and here she was! She did not so much exhaust this general question as pass from it to her insoluble individual problem again: “What am I to do?” She wanted first of all to fling the forty pounds back into Ramage’s face.
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