Lucy blushed from toes to forehead, feeling her pace accelerate. The haste to send her upon her way now had but one interpretation—the recognition of his own immediate danger, the fear that if this tender association continued, he would end in offering her a calamity quite as impossible as that which had happened—the love of a man who was in all probability older than her father! The hurt was no less intensive because it was so ridiculous. He has no imagination, no real generosity. It rained slightly, and a thick mist gathered in the air, and obscured the beautiful prospect. It’s just to feel—one owns one’s self. "Have a little patience, Sir," rejoined the jailer.
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