She hoped Uncle Alfred was not expectant of affection.
Night was coming down. The road was hardly separable from the moor, and it was the Brent Farm dogs which warned her of the visitor's approach. Two yellow dots slowly swelled into carriage lamps, and the rolling of wheels and the thud of hoofs were faintly heard. She went quickly to the schoolroom.
"John, the trap's coming."
"Well, what d'you want me to do about it? Stop it?"
"I wish you could."
"Now, don't get fussy."
"I'm not."
"Not get fussy?"
"Not getting fussy."
"That's better. If your grammar's all right the nerves must be in order."