He looked around, and as he heard that deafening shout,— as he felt the influence of those thousand eyes fixed upon him,—as he listened to the cheers, all his misgivings—if he had any—vanished, and he felt more as if he were marching to a triumph, than proceeding to a shameful death. The uncanny directness of those gray eyes, the absence of diffidence, the beauty of the face in profile (full, it seemed a little too broad to make for perfect beauty), the mellow voice that came full and free, without hesitance, all combined to mark her as the most unusual young woman he had ever met. And Gosse had been still there, so Martha said, and not in prison. It had been part of her wedding trousseau, a gift from her family to his. It seems only yesterday that she was running down the Avenue, all hair and legs. Lucy sat paralyzed, as still as Tiger Lily on the death raft. “We can be alone?” She inquired.
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