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Updated: May 28, 2025
"It is strange that we should be talking this way when you think Why, you don't even know my name." "No more I do," said Ransome. "My name is Violet. Violet Usher. Do you like it?" "Very much," said Ransome. He did not know if this was "cock-a-tree"; but if it was he found himself enjoying it. "And yours is Randall. Mr. Randall Ransome, aren't you?"
He more than suspected that this was "cock-a-tree"; but it made him desperate, so that he said, "Well how about to-night?" Well to-night she'd promised Winny she'd be good and go to church. If he had been madder, if he'd been more set on it, he would have gone off with her that minute; he would have persuaded her to give up church; he himself would have broken his promise to old Wauchope.
He knew, of course, for he was not absolutely without experience, that girls said these things; they said them to draw fellows on; it was their artfulness. There was a word for it; Ransome thought the word was "cock-a-tree." But Winny Dymond didn't say those things the least like that. She said them with the utmost gravity and determination.
She made that impossible for him; impossible to forget that in her and all her shyness there was no art at all of "cock-a-tree," only her fixed and funny determination not "to put upon him."
And so the seeing home of Winny Dymond became a fascinating and uncertain game, fascinating because of its uncertainty; it had all the agitation and allurement of pursuit and capture; if she had wanted to allure and agitate him, no art of "cock-a-tree" could have served her better. He was determined to see Winny Dymond home.
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