Meanwhile Elizabeth Bremerton was sitting pensive on a hill-side about mid-way between Mannering and Chetworth.

She had a bunch of autumn berries in her hands.

Her tweed skirt and country boots showed traces of mud much deeper than anything on the high road; her dress was covered with bits of bramble, dead leaves, and thistledown; and her bright gold hair had been pulled here and there out of its neat coils, as though she had been pushing through hedges or groping through woods.
'It's perfectly _monstrous_!' she was thinking.

'It oughtn't to be allowed.

And when we're properly civilized, it won't be allowed.