Wood, would preclude the possibility of his remaining with his new friends as long as his inclinations prompted. And she did not merely affect to be driven—she felt driven. She longed to own something lasting, anything, but knew her wishes to be stupid. To many in that crowded solitude it came as an extraordinary relief. The joy that filled her veins with throbbing fire urged her to rise and go swinging and whirling and dipping. Luckily, Sir James was so much engrossed by his own task, that both the remark and gesture escaped him. She dropped a flower—it’s in my pocket-book now.
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