CHAPTER VI.
"_But more than loss about me clings._" Jean Ingelow "No! no, I am mad to think it! I must have been dreaming! what could there have been in that talk to have such an effect as I have conjured up?
She pitied Franklin! yes, she pities every one whom she thinks suffering or wronged.

Dear little tender heart! of course it was the room,--didn't she say she was ill?
it must have been awful; the heat and the closeness got into my head,--that's it.

Bad air is as bad as whiskey on a man's brain.

What a fool I made of myself! not even answering her questions.

What did she think of me?
Well." Surrey in despair pushed away the book over which he had been bending all the afternoon, seeing for every word Francesca, and on every page an image of her face.