“Just forget it, Lucy! Keep your secrets to yourself!” He stomped out, slamming the heavily paneled oak door. "I'm at your mercy, Poll," rejoined Kneebone, abjectly. Neither of these wards had beds, and the unfortunate inmates were obliged to take their rest on the oaken floor. That shining slope of snow, and how we talked of death! We might have died! Even when we are old, when we are rich as we may be, we won’t forget the tune when we cared nothing for anything but the joy of one another, when we risked everything for one another, when all the wrappings and coverings seemed to have fallen from life and left it light and fire.
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