You've given me post-cards enough.' And he tapped his breast-pocket, where lay the little writing-case she had furnished for every imaginable need.
'George!' 'Yes, darling.' 'When you're tired, you're--you're not to write.' He put out his long arms, and took her hands in his.
'I shan't be tired--and I shall write.' She looked down upon the hands holding hers.

In each of the little fingers there was a small amusing deformity--a slight crook or twist--which, as is the way of lovers, was especially dear to her.

She remembered once, before they were engaged, flaming out at Bridget, who had made mock of it.

She stooped now, and kissed the fingers.

Then she bowed her forehead upon them.
'George!'-- he could only just hear her--'I know Miss Martin will be kind to me--and I shall find plenty to do.