He who so loved the down, the sea, the floating cloud, had been free once.
When Wentworth had winked his steady grey eyes back to their normal state, he looked furtively at Fay.

She was weeping silently.

He had seen Fay in tears before, but never without emotion.

With a somewhat halting utterance he told her of certain small alleviations of Michael's lot.
The permission, urgently asked, had at last been granted that English books might be sent him from time to time.

The lonely, aching smart of Wentworth's morning hours was vaguely soothed and comforted by Fay's gentle presence.
She appeared to listen to him, but in reality she heard nothing.