He jumped back, wrenching the sword away. As soon as he had gained his feet, he glanced round the bare blank walls of the cell, and, oppressed by the musty, close atmosphere, exclaimed, "I'll let a little fresh air into this dungeon. She even thought that perhaps she might come to love him, in spite of that faint indefinable flavor of absurdity that pervaded his courtly bearing. ‘Possibly,’ he said. But some day she would find a place to love: there would be rosy apples on the boughs, and there would be flurries of snow blowing into her face. There was—a service. It felt too good.
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