14/47 His hand was strong, nervous, restless like himself. Her romantic imagination that was half natural, half literary, delighted to trace in it both caprice and power. When it touched her own slender fingers, it seemed to her they could but just restrain themselves from nestling into his. She would draw herself back in haste, lest some involuntary movement should betray her. But not before the lightning thought had burnt its way through her--'What if one just fell back against his breast--and all was said--all ventured in a moment! Afterwards--ecstasy, or despair--what matter!'-- When would Lucy have dared even such a dream? |