She entered and approached the bunk. Turning, she heaved at the bottom door and slammed it in his face just as he came leaping forward to grab her. “You let him touch you!” John whispered back. I don’t believe in the faults. She had never dreamed of such decadence, never imagined that young people could be so happy and healthy. His demeanour then was sober enough to lend colour to that belief. She taught him all the lore she had; about bird-life and tree-life and the changing mysteries of the sea. “Don’t be an ass, Ferringhall,” he said tersely. She was vehemently impatient—she did not clearly know for what—to do, to be, to experience.
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