'What would Uncle Ben think of me ?' she said to herself in despair.

For Uncle Ben loved calm and self-control in women, and had often praised her for not being flighty and foolish, as he in his bachelor solitude conceived most other young women to be.
She looked down at her bandaged wrist.

The wound still ached and burned from the pressure of that wild grip which she had not been able to ward off from it.

Lucy herself had the strength of healthy youth, but she had felt her strength as nothing in Alice Manisty's hands.

And the tyranny of those black eyes!--so like her brother's, without the human placable spark--and the horror of those fierce possessing miseries that lived in them! Perhaps after all Uncle Ben would not have thought her so cowardly! As she sat up in bed, her hands round her knees, a pitiful home-sickness invaded her.