Explore "Thomas Wingfold. Volume II" by George MacDonald on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
"Mr. Wingfold," said Polwarth one evening, the usual salutations over, taking what he commonly left to his friend -- the initiative, -- "I want to tell you something I don't wish even Rachel to hear."
He led the way to his room, and the curate followed. Seated there, in the shadowy old attic, through the very walls of which the ivy grew, and into which, by the open window in the gable, from the infinite west, blew the evening air, carrying with it the precious scent of honeysuckle, to mingle with that of old books, Polwarth recounted and Wingfold listened to a strange adventure. The trees hid the sky, and the little human nest was dark around them.