She moaned as she touched him. Cathy had not even noticed that she herself was wet and trailing water everywhere. His clothes had evidently seen some service, and were plentifully begrimed with the dust of the workshop. Books were always sliding and slipping, clumsy objects to hold. She seemed just as stiff and shy as a girl ought to be, Lady Palsworthy thought, neither garrulous nor unready, and free from nearly all the heavy aggressiveness, the overgrown, overblown quality, the egotism and want of consideration of the typical modern girl. “I cannot thank you, Sir John,” she said.
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