Now you can understand why every minute is a torture to me. She was not afraid of violence, but she was afraid of something mean, some secondary kind of force. The last observation, however, caught the attention of the carpenter's wife. "How do I know you are a friend?" asked Darrell. He reached the top floor and ran down the corridor to the little dressing room at the end where he had lost her before. "A man!" "At your service, my dear," replied the jailer. Wood, who had recovered her good humour, quitted the room she bestowed a hearty embrace on Thames, and she told him laughingly, that she would "defer all she had to propose to him until to-morrow.
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