He buys his own clothes, chooses his own company, makes his own way of living. Miss Ellicot, who sang ballads, and liked Brendon to turn over the pages for her, tossed her head. 144 I think he heard about the backpack and the spitballs finally. Only a book detective could dope this out. I’m sorry. I am loved. With me behaving as if everything was infinitely matter-of-fact, what could he do? And just then Heaven sent old Manningtree—I didn’t tell you before of the fortunate intervention of Manningtree, did I? He was looking quite infernally distinguished, with a wide crimson ribbon across him—what IS a wide crimson ribbon? Some sort of knight, I suppose.
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