Thames did not attempt to offer him any consolation, for he was almost as much dejected. She could not be more than twenty; and though want and other suffering had done the work of time, had wasted her frame, and robbed her cheek of its bloom and roundness, they had not extinguished the lustre of her eyes, nor thinned her raven hair. Spurlock slept on. Sometimes—a lonely forlorn child—she had gone to him and put her arms around his neck. “I thought you were coming right across the Park. ‘You would know more of me?’ ‘I would know everything about you,’ Gerald told her, his tone at once provocative and inviting. ” “Not yet,” he said.
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