I hurriedly threw on my bonnet, tucked my dripping plaits beneath it, and turned away, hoping the provoking boy would not notice me.
But the provoking boy did notice me. “Well, if it is not Miss Clara Hargraves, trying to hide all her ginger hair inside her bonnet!”
I turned around and saw him sweep his wide-brimmed straw hat off his dark hair and give me a mock bow from atop the wagon seat. He jumped down from the wagon and walked over to me.
I looked up at him. Way, way up. Dickon Weeks, although only a couple of years older than me, was so tall that it hurt my neck to look so far up. Had he grown even taller since I saw him last? Under his well-patched smock, his cotton trousers barely reached his ankles, which certainly hinted that he had. He is starting to appear as “tall and gangly” as Lafayette, I thought. Although he certainly lacks the Frenchman’s reputed charm.
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