A sudden rush of indignation--the pent-up feelings of years--brought the scarlet blood to her cheeks and the fire to her gentle, blue eyes.
"Every one--but _me_" she said, trembling violently.
"You!" said Peter, astonished.
She clasped her hands against her bosom to still the panting and throbbing that, it seemed to her, must be evident outwardly, so strong was the emotion that shook her fragile form.
"Every one--but me," she said.

"Does it never--strike you--Peter--that I, too, would like to live before I die?
Whilst you are living your own life, why shouldn't I be living mine?
Why shouldn't _I_ go to London, and to Paris, and to Rome, and to Switzerland, or wherever I choose, now that you--_you_--have set me free ?" "Mother," said Peter, aghast, "are you gone mad ?" "Perhaps I am a little mad," said poor Lady Mary.

"People go mad sometimes, who have been too long--in prison--they say." Then she saw his real alarm, and laughed till she cried.

"I am not really mad," she said.

"Do not be frightened, Peter.