A small brickbat was thrown, which struck Jonathan in the face. The flowers upon the mantel-shelf were withered and drooping—she had gathered them. He stirred continually, thrusting his legs about and flinging his arms above his head. She thought gleefully of the dress she would get to wear for the Ball (Prom?) and could not wait to tell her foster family about how excited she was. " "Loved me! You!" "I loved you," continued Jonathan, "and struck by your appearance, which seemed above your station, inquired your history, and found you had been stolen by a gipsy in Lancashire.
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