She walked down the station approach, past the neat, obtrusive offices of the coal merchant and the house agent, and so to the wicket-gate by the butcher’s shop that led to the field path to her home. They had much to talk about, or rather Miss Prudence had. Even in the daylight, it had a sombre and suspicious air, and seemed to slink back from the adjoining houses, as if afraid of their society. " "Somebody coming?" "Yes. " "Do girls have puppy-love?" "Land sakes, yes! On the average they are worse than the boys. “Yes, I see that. I sometimes laid away my father's clothes in his trunk. "Red apples and snow!" she sent back at him, her face suddenly transfixed by some inner glory. And she, she in her own person too, was this eternal Bios, beginning again its recurrent journey to selection and multiplication and failure or survival. He was helpful, but gravely dubious.
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