'No--please don't touch me,' said she, ascending cautiously by
sliding one foot forward two or three inches, bringing up the other
behind it, and so on alternately--her lips compressed by
concentration on the feat, her eyes glued to the plank, her hand to
the rope, and her immediate thought to the fact of the distressing
narrowness of her footing. Steps now shook the lower end of the
board, and in an instant were up to her heels with a bound.

'O, Owen, I am so glad you are come!' she said without turning.
'Don't, don't shake the plank or touch me, whatever you do. . . .
There, I am up. Where have you been so long?' she continued, in a
lower tone, turning round to him as she reached the top.

Raising her eyes from her feet, which, standing on the firm deck,
demanded her attention no longer, she acquired perceptions of the
new-comer in the following order: unknown trousers; unknown
waistcoat; unknown face. The man was not her brother, but a total
stranger.

Off went the plank; the paddles started, stopped, backed, pattered
in confusion, then revolved decisively, and the boat passed out into
deep water.

One or two persons had said, 'How d'ye do, Mr. Springrove?' and
looked at Cytherea, to see how she bore her disappointment. Her
ears had but just caught the name of the head draughtsman, when she
saw him advancing directly to address her.

'Miss Graye, I believe?' he said, lifting his hat.