“I”—he seemed to have a difficulty with the word—“I love you. And opposite to him, with a book in his hand,—but it couldn't be a prayer-book,—sat Jonathan Wild, in a parson's cassock and band. He began a jerky, broken conversation that lasted until they reached the station, and left her puzzled at its drift and meaning. And at the thought of that other lover—he was convinced that that beloved person was a lover, and she found herself unable to say a word to explain to him that this other person, the person she loved, did not even know of her love—Ramage grew angry and savage once more, and returned suddenly to gibe and insult. She felt sticky and ashamed when he dropped her off a block away from the McCloskey house as she had requested. “Why don’t you wear your white blouse more often? It is the prettiest shirt you own. ” “Lady Ferringhall—alone?” Ennison exclaimed. . "'Tis a cruel thing you've done, lad. “You have been very kind to me,” she said.
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