Sir John was not used to such glances, and he liked them. The last thing that she remembered was her eyes crossing as she tried to focus upon the crunch of leaves as she lay heaving upon them, dampening them further with the outpouring of her sweat as it leaked from her clothing. She wanted to think of him as her beloved person, to be near him and watch him, to have him going about, doing this and that, saying this and that, unconscious of her, while she too remained unconscious of herself. Why don’t you wait and see if you do truly love me, then I can believe you? Then I know I am worth waiting for. ‘You are Mrs Ibstock, I think,’ she said eagerly. " This exclamation had scarcely escaped him, when the discharge of a pistol was heard, and a bullet whizzed past his ears.
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