“He is not—I don’t like him. I want to be your knight, your servant, your protector, your—I dare scarcely write the word—your husband. She sat down by the paperrack with a general feeling of resemblance to Vivie Warren, and looked through the Morning Post and Standard and Telegraph, and afterward the half-penny sheets. I did what I could to comfort her but she died in terrible pain. She wished that the drive would never end, but it was only three miles after all. She said that she dated him to be closer to me. I am your husband, though as yet your hand has scarcely lain in mine. “And where,” he asked, “are my rivals?” “Deserters,” she answered, laughing. And Lady Trafford having been carried down stairs, and placed within it, the postboy drove off, at a rapid pace for Barnet.
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