That he was hot and breathless was of no matter; in that moment he would have faced a dozen Samsons. Lucy had just began to invoke a solace where John was concerned, doing her best to shelve him as not so special after all. She was taken dreadfully ill on the road, with spasms and short breath, and swoonings,—worse than ever she was before. When she awoke, she felt sick, her mouth still salty with blood. Then light footsteps became audible, descending the staircase with a certain deliberation and a faint rustle of skirts. She's not mischievous—and besides she's chained, and can't reach you. She felt him as something solid and strong and trustworthy beyond measure. Me, you may have.
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