“Go down and rescue the rags of my reputation,” she said, smiling. In spite of God and wasps and her father, she had stolen plums; and once because of discovered misdeeds, and once because she had realized that her mother was dead, she had lain on her face in the unmown grass, beneath the elmtrees that came beyond the vegetables, and poured out her soul in weeping. “Why not?” Lady Lescelles answered. This man has an evil reputation. We just hit against each other, and here we are flying off at a tangent, a little surprised at what we are doing, all our principles abandoned, and tremendously and quite unreasonably proud of ourselves. But it don't much matter—though he's a devilish shrewd fellow, and might have helped me out of a difficulty, had any occurred.
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