To walk beside him, dressed akin to him, rucksacked and companionable, was bliss in itself; each step she took was like stepping once more across the threshold of heaven. “The young women of Jane Austen’s time didn’t get into this sort of scrape! At least—one thinks so. ‘Sergeant Trodger is who I am. Ramage,” she cried, “you are outrageous! You understand nothing. But, here they are. I am bound to admit that I greatly enjoy my altered life. "Where shall I fly?" exclaimed the lady, bewildered with terror. She longed to allow him to kiss her again, to touch her again. "It is," replied Sheppard.
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