"I scratched your face once."
"Yes."
"I got mad and smashed your best hawk's egg."
"You did."
"I threw your fishing line into the brook when you wouldn't let me fish."
"I have never seen it since."
"I was horrid and mean."
"Such were your angelic characteristics."
She thoughtfully swung the basket on her arm, her white sleeve fluttering above her wrist. Her head, with its wave, from the clear brow, of dead-black hair, was bent frankly towards him.
"It has been so long since I saw you," she said suddenly, "and when I last saw you, you were horrid, not I."