She took me round the waist, and we waltzed on the grass--Mrs.
Finch standing by in the condemned blue merino jacket (with the baby in one hand and the novel in the other), and warning us both that if we lost half an hour out of our day, in whirling each other round the lawn, we should never succeed in picking it up again in that house.

We went on whirling, for all that, until we were both out of breath.

Nothing short of downright exhaustion could tame Lucilla.

As for me, I am, I sincerely believe, the rashest person of my age now in existence.

(What is my age?
Ah, I am always discreet about that; it is the one exception.) Set down my rashness to my French nationality, my easy conscience, and my excellent stomach--and let us go on with our story.
There was a private interview at Browndown, later on that day, between Oscar and Reverend Finch.
Of what passed on that occasion, I was not informed.