“I wonder what he takes me for?” When presently she got down from the stile a certain note of internal conflict, a touch of doubt, had gone from her warm-tinted face. “Life’s so queer,” she said, kneeling and looking into the flames. She had time in the afternoons to do crewelwork and embroidery, no longer occupied by the constant spinning of wool. ‘Parbleu, but what a person you make me! One who spies. The few pence left in her purse would only provide a very scanty lunch. Conscientious objectors to that process are not permitted, she found, in Canongate.
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