She was breathing hard, dragging for air, half in fright and half because the sudden effort had used up what little air she had managed to draw so briefly. She was clad in fresh linen, but still wore the riding-habit she had appropriated, having sponged out the spots of blood late last night and left it to dry in the kitchens. “I wonder,” she began, presently, “why I love you—and love you so much?. In any case, he is liable to discover it at any time. ” Lucy added, growing weary. There's not his peer among the peerage. He sent me flowers.
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