Awkwardly, he closed his eyes and fumbled for a kiss. The postilion obeyed, and dashed off as hard as his horses could gallop along the beautiful road leading to Neasdon and Willesden, just as the serving-men made their appearance. She could smell his cologne underneath his collar, or perhaps his aftershave. Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all. Sepulchre's clock struck eight. About her, as she had gone day by day to and from the Tredgold College, she had seen and not seen many an incidental aspect of those sides of life about which girls are expected to know nothing, aspects that were extraordinarily relevant to her own position and outlook on the world, and yet by convention ineffably remote. It is what I have wanted, what I have meant all along.
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