58 \"Why will you not touch me?\" She cried out, sitting up, her head in her hands. The bump was coarse and didn’t feel right. Mr. Miss Mary being his only child ’an all, he were in a right pelter. ‘Could she have been a spy, after all?’ ‘Oh, she’s not a spy,’ Gerald answered, almost absently. Evidently in the flower of his age, he was scarcely less remarkable for symmetry of person than for comeliness of feature; and, though his attire was plain and unpretending, it was such as could be worn only by one belonging to the higher ranks of society. She held out her hand frankly. But for me it doesn’t matter. It seemed to her at this moment that there was nothing left for her to do. She propped a pillow against his padded headboard and sat herself into a stiff upright position, legs expertly crossed.
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