To the poor carpenter it seemed an endless distance. Never again would he repeat that kiss; but at night when they separated, he would touch her forehead with his lips, and sometimes he would hold her hand in his and pat it. Look at it, I say. I said, that day at Surbiton, ‘There’s many good things in life, but there’s only one best, and that’s the wild-haired girl who’s pulling away at that oar. ’ ‘That’s just it,’ said Joan Ibstock shamefacedly.
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