Voices came to his ears, and
it seemed that one of them was a woman's.
The crack on the causeway must have been harder than it appeared, for Mr.
Lovel fell into a doze. When he woke he had some trouble in collecting his
wits. He felt no bodily discomfort except a little soreness at the back of
his scalp. His captors had trussed him tenderly, for his bonds did not
hurt, though a few experiments convinced him that they were sufficiently
secure. His chief grievance was a sharp recollection that he had not
supped; but, being a philosopher, he reflected that, though hungry, he was
warm. He was in a glass coach driven rapidly on a rough road, and outside
the weather seemed to be wild, for the snow was crusted on the window.
There were riders in attendance; he could hear the click-clack of ridden
horses. Sometimes a lantern flashed on the pane, and a face peered dimly
through the frost. It seemed a face that he had seen before.
Presently Mr. Lovel began to consider his position. Clearly he had been
kidnapped, but by whom and to what intent? He reflected with pain that it
might be his son's doing, for that gentleman had long been forbidden his
door.
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