heart. She held her hand out to me and I touched it softly, then
turned and climbed back down the rock.
All that week I dreamed of Lorna Doone. I could not work
for very long at anything, and everybody thought I was ill. Our
servant, John Fry, told people that a mad dog had bitten me. My
mother almost believed him. In the evening she sat beside me
and asked me questions that I did not want to answer. I only
wanted to sit by the fire and think of Lorna Doone.