Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred. To go to him, to console him! But she stirred not from her hiding place. "Another moment, and it'll be too late. It was a gorgeous May evening, the air redolent with the soapy purple scents of hyacinth and lilac. \"I'm sixteen, I'm a junior like you. “Why not?” He repeated, demanding. She had never thought of him at all in that way before. Lucy grabbed his shirtsleeve, whispering on tiptoe. “Forgive me,” he decided to say at last, and his voice had a little quiver of emotion, and he laid his hand on hers upon her knee. The entrance was concealed between two huge boulders within a clump of trees, and was now so overgrown that no one who did not know of its existence could ever hope to find it.
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