Painting is only one slender branch of the great tree. . The haste to send her upon her way now had but one interpretation—the recognition of his own immediate danger, the fear that if this tender association continued, he would end in offering her a calamity quite as impossible as that which had happened—the love of a man who was in all probability older than her father! The hurt was no less intensive because it was so ridiculous. Her lips parted, but no words came. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. McClintock, coming from below, saw them and went forward. Lucy’s guts ached with jealousy and bitterness, building in a knot that twisted in her stomach, rag-like. They had a universe to talk about—two universes.
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