She leaned a little towards him. She stared at him and thought the words, “My husband, my husband. Be so good as to let me pass, sir,” she added, looking her obstructor steadily in the face. Standing on tiptoe, on a joint-stool, placed upon the bench, with his back to the door, and a clasp-knife in his hand, this youngster, instead of executing his appointed task, was occupied in carving his name upon a beam, overhead. When I absorb a fact, my brain weighs the fact carefully and stores it away. It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls. Finally she fell into reflection. "'Cos there's a gale a-getting up as'll perwent you, young freshwater," replied the tar. "Jack Sheppard," returned the boy, fixing his eyes upon a portrait of the Earl of Mar. Wanton!… This, then, was what her father had meant. For the first time a definite doubt possessed him. The evening was warm and inviting, one meant to be spent outdoors. She had made her first fight for dignity and freedom as a grown-up and independent Person, and this was how the universe had treated her. But the lady was not so easily won; and though she did not absolutely reject him, gave him very slight hopes. She throws a sort of spell over us all.
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