Hurt beyond what he could imagine by the selfishness and pride of her forbears, whose fateful disputes had robbed her of the life she should have led, the plucky little devil had taken matters into her own hands. “May I sit beside you?” “It’s a very difficult one,” said her aunt. Sharples received them at the threshold, and holding his lantern towards the prisoners to acquaint himself with their features, nodded to Quilt, between whom and himself some secret understanding seemed to subsist, and then closed and barred the door. She would often steal away to tryst with him in the orchard, even now she felt her loins grow warm with the memory of his ardor.
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