'
'Winnie,' I said, 'tell me this strange story about yourself. Tell it
in your own way, and do not let me interrupt you by a word. Whenever
you see that I am about to speak, stop me--put your hand over my
mouth.'
'But where am I to begin?'
'Begin from our first meeting on the sands on the night of the
landslip.'
But while I spoke I thought I observed her looking at the breakfast
provided by Sinfi with something like the same wistful expression
that was on her face on that morning forgotten by her but remembered
by me so well, when she breakfasted so heartily on the same spot.
'Winnie,' I said, 'this mountain air has given me a voracious
appetite. I wonder whether you could manage to eat some of these good
things provided by our theatrical manageress?'
'I wonder whether I could,' said Winnie; 'I'll try--if you'll ask me
no questions, but talk about Snowdon and watch the changes of the
glorious morning. But we must call Sinfi.'
'No, no. I want to talk to you alone first. By the time your story is
over I at least shall be ready for another breakfast, and then we
will call her.
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