He—In fact, he—he locked me in my room. I will always think of you with fondness, no matter what. ‘Well?’ demanded Miss Froxfield, accepting a glass of lemonade proffered by a passing lackey. Soup would help you feel better, soup and hot tea. 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. It was good to kiss you, even at the price. The hymnal lyrics had never stirred her; she had memorized and sung them parrotwise.
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