The girl was like some north-country woodland pool, penetrated by a single shaft of sunlight—beautifully clear in one spot and mysteriously obscured elsewhere. He had not noticed the girl particularly when she offered the sandwiches; but in this moment he found her beautiful. He laughed once or twice at himself as he paced backwards and forwards. You call it a lot of nicknames—“Babs” and “Bibs” and “Viddles” and “Vee”; you whack at it playfully, and it whacks you back. She passed down the stairs and into the street. "What for?" demanded Wood. His feet would have the firm texture of his hands. There would be no mercy in this man.
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