"Jane!—don't!—how can you? Don't speak so loud! And I can't think how you can talk so." The small delicate face flushed with feeling. "It is just because he has been so good to us—such a real friend—that I can't bear to think of asking him to do anything more."
Jane mumbled something. "I only know I can't abide the place," she added. "I'm sick of it."
"Why, we've not been here six weeks."
"It feels like six months," Jane yawned vociferously.
"You are always going into Lynnbrooke."
"Couldn't exist if I didn't. I just hate this farm."
Winnie lifted an entreating finger; and Jane sank into sullen silence. Beyond a shut door two voices alternated.
"I believe they're talking about us," muttered Jane. And she was not mistaken.