take it slow. She entered the kitchen. They vanished through the doorway. Supper was quickly served; the oldest bottle of wine was brought from the cellar; the strongest barrel of ale was tapped; but not one of the party could eat or drink—their hearts were too full. She taught him how to sail a proa, how to hack open a milk-coconut, how to relish bamboo sprouts. But a middle-aged man like Ramage ought to know better than to draw out a girl, the daughter of a friend and neighbor. With some difficulty he contrived to raise her to the window, and with still greater difficulty to squeeze her through it—her bulk being much greater than his own. “I believe it is.
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