Behind the Avenue was a little hill, and an iron-fenced path went over the crest of this to a stile under an elm-tree, and forked there, with one branch going back into the Avenue again. As if he read her thought, he spoke it aloud. ‘I knowed he were a wrong ’un, but that. Kneebone," she added, with a glance at that gentleman, which was meant to speak daggers, "will do as he pleases. “I wish. Kneebone, I came hither as your guest. ‘Sergeant Trodger is who I am. "We must keep still. She handled it half fearfully, and set it carefully down again.
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