The ditch by the side of the road must have been freshly dug in front of the cottage.
Once clear of the garden Fyne gathered way like a racing cutter.

What was a mile to him--or twenty miles?
You think he might have gone shrinkingly on such an errand.

But not a bit of it.

The force of pedestrian genius I suppose.

I raced by his side in a mood of profound self-derision, and infinitely vexed with that minx.