"Oh God! she is dying," exclaimed Jack in a voice suffocated by emotion. He left that arid rule clear of the least mist of refinement or delicacy. “I haven’t a scrap—of this sort of aversion. He smiled. 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. But most of all, I wanted to love. Jack instandly extinguished the light, and called to his comrade to come after him. She even thought that perhaps she might come to love him, in spite of that faint indefinable flavor of absurdity that pervaded his courtly bearing.
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