There was a great splash of blood upon it, her hand was all wet and sticky. It's fortunate we've no more Jack Sheppards, or I should stand but a poor chance. The haste to send her upon her way now had but one interpretation—the recognition of his own immediate danger, the fear that if this tender association continued, he would end in offering her a calamity quite as impossible as that which had happened—the love of a man who was in all probability older than her father! The hurt was no less intensive because it was so ridiculous. "My coat!" he repeated, his glance burning into hers. There are sentimental and traditional deferences and reverences, I know, between father and son; but that’s just exactly what prevents the development of an easy friendship.
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