He pressed his lips to her with a much greater force than she had anticipated. John finally wrested her away from the company of his parents, insisting that he wanted to take a walk in the park before it was completely dark. Past her shot the little old lady in the bonnet, running incredibly fast, but otherwise still alertly respectable, and she was making a strange threatening sound as she ran, such as one would use in driving ducks out of a garden—“B-rr-r-r-r—!” and pawing with black-gloved hands. It’s one of their worst traits, one of their very worst. She had tasted freedom now, and so far she had not felt the need of protection. The young rascal had learnt from some of the women-servants that Lady Trafford was from home, and was in the very act of making off when I got down stairs. I’ve told you that practically already.
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