And so I could not answer her, but was overcome with thinking and feeling and confusion.

Neither could I look again; only waited for the melody which made every word like a poem to me, the melody of her voice.

But she had not the least idea of what was going on with me, any more than I myself had.
'I think, Master Ridd, you cannot know,' she said, with her eyes taken from me, 'what the dangers of this place are, and the nature of the people.' 'Yes, I know enough of that; and I am frightened greatly, all the time, when I do not look at you.' She was too young to answer me in the style some maidens would have used; the manner, I mean, which now we call from a foreign word 'coquettish.' And more than that, she was trembling from real fear of violence, lest strong hands might be laid on me, and a miserable end of it.

And to tell the truth, I grew afraid; perhaps from a kind of sympathy, and because I knew that evil comes more readily than good to us.
Therefore, without more ado, or taking any advantage--although I would have been glad at heart, if needs had been, to kiss her (without any thought of rudeness)--it struck me that I had better go, and have no more to say to her until next time of coming.

So would she look the more for me and think the more about me, and not grow weary of my words and the want of change there is in me.