“There is no—Good God!” he exclaimed. It is positively hateful to think of it. A girl—at my age—is grown-up. Don’t think it was anything better than fever—or a bit beautiful. It is enough to make a man throw away canvas and brushes into the bottomless precipices, enough to make one weep with despair at his utter and absolute impotence. Wood's anxiety respecting the fugitive was speedily relieved by hearing another waterman busy himself in preparation for starting; and, shortly after, the dip of a second pair of oars sounded upon the river. She opened her eyes. Her back stiffened. You needn’t be in any doubt about it.
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