Her back had stiffened, and her hazel eyes looked steadfastly ahead. She nibbled at his neck gently, sweetly, as her hand tracing his chest. “It’s like Troy!” said a voice of rapture. 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. "I suppose I was mistaken," returned Gay.
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