“I shall be very glad to have you for a friend,” he said, “loving friend. Winifred Wood was now in her twentieth year. Lucy looked at her with a small measure of pity. Wood's anxiety to please her distinguished guests speedily displayed itself in a very plentiful, if not very dainty repast. In the twilight he had ceased to be a person one could tackle and shame; he had become something more general, a something that crawled and sneaked toward her and would not let her alone. He rather liked the "sir"; it signified both gratefulness and the chastened spirit. For now, I fear there is something worse, something more present.
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