It troubled
him. In spite of himself, of his good sense and reason, there was an
undercurrent of uneasiness at work within him. Why should there be?
Lionel could not have explained had he been required to do it. That
Frederick Massingbird was dead and buried, there could be no shade of
doubt; and ghosts had no place in the creed of Lionel Verner. All true;
but the consciousness of uneasiness was there, and he could not ignore
it.
In the last few days, the old feeling touching Lucy had been revived
with unpleasant force. Since that night which she had spent at his
house, when they saw, or fancied they saw, a man hiding himself under
the tree, he had thought of her more than was agreeable; more than was
right, he would have said, but that he saw not how to avoid it. The
little episode of this morning at his mother's house had served to open
his eyes most completely, to show him how intense was his love for Lucy
Tempest. It must be confessed that his wife did little towards striving
to retain his love.
He went along, thinking of these things. He would have put them from
him; but he could not.
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