With all this, a shade of vexation was painted
on her lovely cheeks as she appealed against her epigram.
Mrs. Bazalgette (with the calm, inexorable superiority of
matron despotism). "You are an in-nocent fox!! Is your needle
threaded? Here is the tear; no, not there. I caught against the
flowerpot frame, and I'll swear I heard my gown go. Look lower down,
dear. Don't give it up."
All which may perhaps remind the learned and sneering reader of
another fox--the one that "had a wound, and he could not tell where."
They rode out to-day as usual, and David had the equivocal pleasure of
seeing them go from the door.
Lucy was one of the first down, and put her hand on the saddle, and
looked carelessly round for somebody to put her up. David stepped
hastily forward, his heart beating, seized her foot, never waited for
her to spring, but went to work at once, and with a powerful and
sustained effort raised her slowly and carefully like a dead weight,
and settled her in the saddle. His gripe hurt her foot. She bore it
like a Spartan sooner than lose the amusement of his simplicity and
enormous strength, so drolly and unnecessarily exerted. It cost her a
little struggle not to laugh right out, but she turned her head away
from him a moment and was quit for a spasm. Then she came round with a
face all candor.
"Thank you, Mr. Dodd," said she, demurely; and her eyes danced in her
head. Her foot felt encircled with an iron band, but she bore him not
a grain of malice for that, and away she cantered, followed by his
longing eyes.
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