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217 pages, Kindle Edition
First published January 1, 1925
“Dearest has lots, and, indeed, I don’t like them—not very much, Peter de—ah. They’re hard, and they’re cold, and the colour in them doesn’t change. They’re not like flowers.”
“Of course they’re not,” said Peter. “Who wants them to be?”
“I do,” said Rose Ellen. “I would like them much better if they were flowers. I like things to be soft, and to smell sweet like flowers do. I think I don’t really like jewels at all, Peter de—ah.”
He met Sylvia Coverdale in Ledlington, where she was staying with an elderly cousin. He met her in very romantic circumstances which combined a bicycle accident, a car which was grossly exceeding the speed limit, a scream from Sylvia who thought her last hour had come, and a really good exhibition of presence of mind and dexterity on the part of Peter.
Sylvia was eighteen, distractingly pretty, and an arrant flirt. She told Peter he had saved her life. She said saving a person’s life was a Link, wasn’t it? Didn’t Peter think it was a Link? Peter thought a good deal, but he didn’t say very much.
Rose Ellen saw his shoulders heave. Her soft mouth trembled a little, but she did not speak. After a minute or two she dropped her little ring of plaited grass and laid a small brown hand on Peter’s head.