I observed after the first
day of our meeting that Winifred never would mount the tower steps
again. And I knew why. So delicate were her feelings, so acute did
her kind little heart make her, that she would not mount steps which
I could never mount.
Not that Winifred looked upon me as her little lover. There was not
much of the sentimental in her. Once when I asked her on the sands if
I might be her lover, she took an entirely practical view of the
question, and promptly replied 'certumly,' adding, however, like the
wise little woman I always found her, that she 'wasn't _quite_ sure
she knew what a lover was, but if it was anything _very_ nice she
should certumly like _me_ to be it.'
It was the child's originality of manner that people found so
captivating. One of her many little tricks and ways of an original
quaintness was her habit of speaking of herself in the third person,
like the merest baby. 'Winifred likes this,' 'Winifred doesn't like
that,' were phrases that had an irresistible fascination for me.
Another fascinating characteristic of hers was connected with her
superstitions.
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