While he was thinking about it, Tim continued to describe in glowing colors the fun they could have; occasionally relating some adventure of "Mike Martin," "Dick Turpin," or other villain, whose lives and exploits were the only literature he ever read.
But Charles could not fall at once.

There were some difficulties which he could not get over.

It was wrong to do as Tim proposed; it was so written on his soul.

The "still small voice" could not be silenced.

As fast as he reconciled one objection, another came up, and something in his bosom kept saying, "You must not do it." The more he thought, the more imperative was the command.