I don’t think of you as a kid. "You're only twenty—not legally of age. He filled her glass with champagne. For a few minutes, she appeared scarcely sensible of his presence. And yet—Wait a little, you’d better have every bit of it. This time you cannot. The highest form of knowledge was magic: the priesthood. She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters. Tell him the truth, Annabel. Of late, he has become the instrument of Walpole, and does all the dirty work for the Secret Committee.
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