I had dreamt of the olive grove beyond the courtyard I had once been fascinated 198 with as a boy. She could not be more than twenty; and though want and other suffering had done the work of time, had wasted her frame, and robbed her cheek of its bloom and roundness, they had not extinguished the lustre of her eyes, nor thinned her raven hair. Her heart was beating with quite unaccustomed vigour, her hands were hot, she was conscious of a warmth in her blood which the summer sunshine was scarcely responsible for. Wild and I were nabbing you in this very room, some nine years ago?" "I do," replied Kneebone; "and now," he added, aside, "the case is altered. Of course, why not? She would be honest, anyhow! She turned her eyes to Manning. She had been so young then. I meant mischief.
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