Burton had never known any one before who wore white silk stockings.
"I am very much in love with you," he repeated.

"I cannot help it.

It is not my fault--that is to say, it is as much your fault as it is mine." The corners of her mouth twitched.
"Is it?
Well, what are you going to do about it ?" "I am going to take you down to the orchard, through the little gate, and across the plank into the hayfield," he announced, boldly.

"I am going to sit with you under the oak tree, where we can just catch the view of the moor through the dip in the hills.

We will lean back and watch the clouds--those little white, fleecy, broken-off pieces--and I will tell you fairy stories.