Something or other—she did not catch what—he was damned if he could stand. Fretting and fidgeting, he had, after an hour or so, turned to McClintock. She saw herself begin a slow, sinuous dance: and stop suddenly in the middle of a figure, conscious that the dance was not impromptu, her own, but native—the same dance she had quitted but a few minutes gone. Wood's anxiety respecting the fugitive was speedily relieved by hearing another waterman busy himself in preparation for starting; and, shortly after, the dip of a second pair of oars sounded upon the river. . . . Everybody seemed greatly concerned about the sincerity of Tolstoy.
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