After an affectionate parting with Winifred, Thames was conducted by the carpenter to his sleeping apartment—a comfortable cosy chamber; such a one, in short, as can only be met with in the country, with its dimity-curtained bed, its sheets fragrant of lavender, its clean white furniture, and an atmosphere breathing of freshness. The walls rocked, the footrail of the bed wavered, and the girl's head had the nebulosity of a composite photograph. “I don’t think our engagement can go on,” she plunged, and felt exactly that loss of breath that comes with a dive into icy water.
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