THE WINDOWShe wore more sensible clothes than most women.She wore very short skirts and black knickerbockers.She would jump straight into a stream and flounderacross. He liked her rashness, but he saw that it wouldnot do — she would kill herself in some idiotic wayone of these days. She seemed to be afraid of nothing— except bulls. At the mere sight of a bull in a fieldshe would throw up her arms and fly screaming, whichwas the very thing to enrage a bull of course. But shedid not mind owning up to it in the least; one mustadmit that. She knew she was an awful coward aboutbulls, she said. She thought she must have been tossedin her perambulator when she was a baby. She didn’tseem to mind what she said or did. Suddenly now shepitched down on the edge of the cliff and began tosing some song aboutDamn your eyes, damn your eyes.They all had to join in and sing the chorus, and shoutout together:Damn your eyes, damn your eyes,but it would be fatal to let the tide come in and coverup all the good hunting-grounds before they got onto the beach.

‘Fatal,’ Paul agreed, springing up, and as they wentslithering down, he kept quoting the guide-book about‘these islands being justly celebrated for their park-like prospects and the extent and variety of their ma-rine curiosities’. But it would not do altogether, thisshouting and damning your eyes, Andrew felt, pick-ing his way down the cliff, this clapping him on theback, and calling him ‘old fellow’ and all that; it89
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