“You still have the drop on me,” said Sebastian.
She shivered and crouched still and whispered:
“I'm cold.”
“How long have you been here freezing?”
Sebastian thrust anything inflammable at hand into the stove, lit it and piled in the wood.
“Not long. Only—only a few moments.”
“You still have the advantage of me. Who are you?”
“Why, I'm Harriet,” she said simply, and looked up.
“Just so. 'Received, 1877.' How old were you then?”
“Why, I was eight.”