He measured out the portion of another peg, the bottle wavering in his hand. “I do not know you,” she said coldly. It fell with a clatter to the floor. She would always be going to and fro up the Avenue, getting glimpses of Ramage, seeing him in trains. She stole a few glances at John as she stood and played the pieces. Ireton rushed forward to open the wicket for him. Wood's reply, if he intended any, was cut short by a loud knocking at the door. Just as they reached the eastern outlet of the churchyard— where the tall elms cast a pleasant shade over the rustic graves—a momentary stoppage took place. We can’t. Let us pass, Sir.
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