She struggled not to be afraid. If a cart were coming, or those labourers in the field had heard, escape was impossible. The cloth was removed, and Wood, drawing the table as near the window as possible—for it was getting dusk —put on his spectacles, and opened that sacred volume from which the best consolation in affliction is derived, and left the lovers—for such they may now be fairly termed—to their own conversation. It isn’t because you’re good, but because I may be rotten bad; and there’s something—something living and understanding in you. The recollection was too painful, and he burst into an agony of tears. Breakfast, too, was an impossible occasion. But for now, I’d like to turn in, if you don’t mind.
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