“You remember the man in Paris who used to follow me about—Meysey Hill they called him?” He nodded. " "Have you told her?" "Told her? Told her what?" Spurlock sat straight in his chair. He was wrapped in a laced roquelaure, which he threw off on his entrance into the room. The whole place and everything in it aimed at one thing—to illustrate, to elaborate, to criticise and illuminate, and make ever plainer and plainer the significance of animal and vegetable structure. “Agreed,” he said with queer exaltation, and his grip tightened on her hand. A strange betrothal!—the primal idea of which was escape! The girl, intent upon abrogating for ever all legal rights of the father in the daughter, of rendering innocuous the thing she had now named the Terror: the boy, seeking selfcrucifixion in expiation of his transgression, changing a peccadillo into damnation! It was easy for Ruth to surrender to the idea, for she believed she was loved; and in gratitude it was already her determination to give this boy her heart's blood, drop by drop, if he wanted it. ‘You are dead, you,’ he yelled back, leaping into the seat of the final pew.
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