Page:Under the greenwood tree (1872 Volume 2).pdf/26

For several minutes Dick drove along homeward, with the inward eye of reflection so anxiously set on his passages at arms with Fancy, that the road and scenery were as a thin mist over the real pictures of his mind. Was she a coquette? The balance between the evidence that she did love him and that she did not was so nicely struck, that his opinion had no stability. She had let him put his hand upon hers; she had allowed her eyes to drop plump into the depths of his—his into hers—three or four