"Why it is astonishing, certainly," remarked Kneebone, "to find any woman constant—especially to a girlish attachment; but such is the case. And then presently these clouds began to wear thin and expose steep, deep slopes, going down and down, with grass and pine-trees, down and down, and at last, through a great rent in the clouds, bare roofs, shining like very minute pin-heads, and a road like a fibre of white silk-Macugnana, in Italy. She pointed suddenly at the portrait. Take my child to—it is—oh God!—I am sinking—take it—take it!" "Where?" shouted Wood. He did like her, anyhow; he was always pleased to be with her.
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