Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred. She took up one of her father’s novels and put it down again, fretted up to her own room for some work, sat on her bed and meditated upon the room that she was now really abandoning forever, and returned at length with a stocking to darn. She glanced at the soft-ticking clock with the exposed brass pendulum upon the white marble mantel, and made a rapid calculation. “I shall not speak,” he said, “now or at any other time. Lucy blushed from toes to forehead, feeling her pace accelerate. He dressed mechanically; so many moves this way, so many moves that. I felt suddenly I understood you—as an intelligent person. That world of fine printed cambrics and escorted maidens, of delicate secondary meanings and refined allusiveness, presented itself to her imagination with the brightness of a lost paradise, as indeed for many women it is a lost paradise.
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