Winifred Wood was now in her twentieth year. “It’s—it’s a difficult question. She had neither the semi-boisterousness of the average American girl nor the chilling insolence of the English. The silence grew unbearable, so she asked, \"What is your surname, John?\" \"My surname? You mean my last name?\" \"Yes. This at once thrilled her and worried her. “I should imagine,” he said, shaking out a copy of The Times, “that it is your brain which is addled. If he got her outside, surely the soldiers would see her and intervene. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory.
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