Two wrongs don't make a right." "How old ARE you ?" Clara asked.
"Twenty-five." "And I am thirty," she said.
"I know you are." "I shall be thirty-one--or AM I thirty-one ?" "I neither know nor care.

What does it matter!" They were at the entrance to the Grove.

The wet, red track, already sticky with fallen leaves, went up the steep bank between the grass.
On either side stood the elm-trees like pillars along a great aisle, arching over and making high up a roof from which the dead leaves fell.
All was empty and silent and wet.

She stood on top of the stile, and he held both her hands.

Laughing, she looked down into his eyes.