9. At Christmas he gave her a set of a small edition of Meredith’s novels, very prettily bound in flexible leather, being guided in the choice of an author, as he intimated, rather by her preferences than his own. "No. ‘Quickly! You must get up. You never can go back. The Procession to Tyburn 462 XXXII. And by degrees, perhaps, that maiden distrust of yours that makes you shrink from my kisses, will vanish. "Of yourself," he replied, in a mournful tone. There was an air of repressed gaiety in her actions: the sense of freedom had returned; her heart was empty again.
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