"You've got him?" demanded Ireton. Without betraying the slightest confusion, or making a single remark, he quietly resumed his seat. “She thinks that Missy is trying to turn me into a punk or a Goth. She's too pretty and unusual. Whatever she does is minimized. No more scuffling. The birds were singing blithely amid the trees,—the lowing of the cows resounded from the yard,—a delicious perfume from the garden was wafted through the open window,—at a distance, the church-bells of Willesden were heard tolling for evening service.
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