“And so you have been, Pierce, dear,” she sobbed, “but I don’t deserve it—I don’t deserve it.”
“I don’t deserve to have such a loving little companion,” he said, kissing her tenderly. “Haven’t I let my fancy stray from you, and am I not being sharply punished for my weal mess?”
She suddenly hung back from him and pressed her hair from her temples, as he held her by the waist.
“Pierce!” she said sharply, and there was a look of anger in her eyes, “he is a horrid wretch.”
“People do not give him much of a character,” said Leigh bitterly, “but that would be no excuse for my following him to wring his neck.”
“I believe he would be guilty of any wickedness. Tell me, dear; do you think it possible—such things have been done?”
“What things?” he said, wondering at her excited manner.
“It is to get her money, of course; for it would be his then. Do you think he has taken her away by force?”
Leigh started violently now in turn, and a light seemed to flash into his understanding, but it died out directly, and he said half pityingly, as he drew her to him once again:
“Poor little inventor of fiction,” he said, with a harsh laugh. “But let it rest, Sissy; it will not do. These things only occur in a romance. No, I do not think anything of the kind; and what do you say to London now?”