She had had too much of them.

Mary roamed about with a swifter footstep, looking at the roses, plucking off a dead leaf, or a cankered bud here and there.

Presently she tore across the lawn to the shrubbery which screened the lawn and flower gardens from the winding carriage drive sunk many feet below, and disappeared in a thicket of arbutus and Irish yew.
'What terribly hoydenish manners!' murmured Lesbia, with a languid shrug of her shoulders, as she strolled back to the drawing-room.
She cared very little for the newspapers, for politics not at all; but anything was better than everlasting-contemplation of the blue still water, and the rugged crest of Helm Crag.
'What was the matter with Mary that she rushed off like a mad woman ?' inquired Lady Maulevrier, looking up from the _Times_.
'I haven't the least idea.

Mary's movements are quite beyond the limits of my comprehension.

Perhaps she has gone after a bird's-nest.' Mary was intent upon no bird's-nest.