His thoughts returned, as they always did at some hour of the day or night, to the "horrid woman." Yes, that had hit him hard; the lad's heart still throbbed with bitterness as he thought of it.

He had never felt anything so much; he didn't believe he should ever mind anything so much again.

"I'm not one of your sentimental sort," he thought, half congratulating himself, half in self-contempt.
But he could not get her out of his head; he wondered if he ever should.
And it had gone pretty far too.

By Jove! that night in the orchard!--when she had kissed him, and thrown her arms round his neck! And then to write him that letter, when things were at their worst.

She might have done the thing decently.