This froze Zoe, and she retired within herself.
It was a fine fresh morning; the coachman drove fast; the air fanned her cheek; the motion was enlivening; the horses's hoofs rang quick and clear upon the road. Fresh objects met the eye every moment. Her heart was as sad and aching as before, but there arose a faint encouraging sense that some day she might be better, or things might take some turn.
When they had rolled about ten miles she said, in a low voice, “Harrington.”
“Well?”
“You were right. Cooping one's self up is the way to go mad.”
“Of course it is.”
“I feel a little better now—a very little.”
“I am glad of it.”
But he was not hearty, and she said no more.
He was extremely attentive to her all the journey, and, indeed, had never been half so polite to her.