It would have to be somebody who wouldn't talk
when I wanted to listen to the wind, or wouldn't mind my not
talking--and yet who wouldn't mind my talking either, if I took a sudden
notion." She began to laugh at her own fancy, with the low, rich note
which delighted his ear afresh every time he heard it. "Comrades who are
tolerant of one's every mood are not common, are they? Mr. Kendrick,
what do you suppose those dots of bright scarlet are, halfway down the
hill? They must be rose haws, mustn't they? Nothing else could have that
colour in November."
"I don't know what 'rose haws' are. Do you want them--whatever they are?
I'll go and get them for you."
"I'll go, too, to see if they're worth picking. They're thorny things;
you won't like them, but I do."
"You think I don't like thorny things?" he asked her as they went down
the hillside, up which Ted and Ruth were now struggling. It was steep
and he held out his hand to her, but she ignored it and went on with
sure, light feet.
"No, I think you like them soft and rounded."
"And you prefer them prickly?"
"Prickly enough to be interesting."
They reached the scraggly rosebush, bare except for the bright red haws,
their smooth hard surfaces shining in the sun.
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