All the turnkeys rose to salute the thief-taker, whose habitually-sullen countenance looked gloomier than usual. Lucy propped Michelle against a thick, knobby tree stump. For a nun at night it is less dangerous than for the jeune demoiselle. The joy of being loved thrilled her as nothing before had ever done, a curious abstract joy which had nothing in it at that moment of regret or even pity. You have converted me to—Lester Ward! You are my dear friend, you are a slip of a girl, but there are moments when my head has been on your breast, when your heart has been beating close to my ears, when I have known you for the goddess, when I have wished myself your slave, when I have wished that you could kill me for the joy of being killed by you.
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