Besides, it
hurt--horribly. He knelt before her on the wet moor, unconscious of
his brand-new trousers, conscious of nothing but the exquisite moment;
and, with hands that trembled violently, freed first her delicate feet
and then her skirt. He breathed hard, for the operation was intricate
and took time. That bramble seemed to have neither beginning nor end,
it branched out in all directions and was set with multitudinous and
powerful thorns. Lucia stood still, being indeed unable to move, and
watched his long, slender fingers adroitly disentangling her.
"I'm afraid you're hurting yourself," said she.
"Not at all," said Mr. Rickman gallantly, though the thorns tortured
his hands, drawing drops of blood. His bliss annihilated pain.
"Take care," said she, "you are letting yourself get terribly torn."
He took no notice; but breathed harder than ever. "There, I've got it
all off now, I think."
"Thank you very much." She drew her skirt gently from his detaining
grasp.
"No--wait--please. There's a great hulking brute of a thorn stuck in
the hem."
She waited.
"Confound my clumsiness! I've done it now!"
"Done what?" She looked down; on the dainty hem there appeared three
distinct crimson stains. Mr. Rickman's face was crimson, too, with a
flush of agony. Whatever he did for her his clumsiness made wrong.
"I'm awfully sorry, but I've ruined your--your pretty dress, Miss
Harden."
For it was a pretty, a very pretty, a charming dress.
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