As for this infatuation—it’s like some obsession, some magic thing laid upon you. " "God help me, what a muddle!" The cigar crumbled in Spurlock's hand. Wood," she continued, with a sudden change of tone, and convulsively clutching the carpenter's arm, "promise it me. The way it had happened was stupid, absurd. Starting off at a rapid pace, Jack dashed down Turnagain-lane, skirted the eastern bank of Fleet-ditch, crossed Holborn Bridge, and began to ascend the neighbouring hill. The air was sharp and bracing, and the leaves which had taken their autumnal tints were falling from the trees. Her skin prickled. What right had she to call herself “Alcide”? It was abominable, an imposture.
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