This was too much!
“I hate being called an index-finger!” was my answer. “I don’t know what it means.”
She got up, put her arm round me, and kissed me.
“I would be good to you,” she said in her softest voice.
It really was difficult to resist her. She was a very sweet woman. I knew it then by the way she kissed me, and I don’t think in all my life I ever felt anything softer than the soft, soft cheek which was pressed against mine. Had she been a girl of my own age, she could not have had a more delicate complexion.
“You are good to me—you are very good to me,” I said with gratitude.
“I like you and even love you, and I hope you will like me and not misunderstand me.”
“But why should I?” I asked.
“Come into the other room, child,” was her remark.
We went into the room where the stuffed birds were, and Miss Donnithorne sat down and poked up the fire.