Two small boys trespassed on the line of fire.
“Fore! you brats.”
The soldier’s voice rang clear and clarion-like. It seemed to come from his chest with a brisk and healthful forcefulness, a strenuous virility that was unproblematic and easeful.
“My dear girl, you are much too amiable,” he said, as they waded through a lagoon of heather.
“Am I?”
“You women are so patient; you will stand hell and damnation for the man you are fond of.”
Ophelia smiled.
“And you think I am still fond of him?” she said.
“Don’t ask me to be a prophet.”
“I am not a Mary or a Prudence.”