The pause lengthened, and he had the satisfaction of seeing despair melt the set mockery of Spurlock's mouth. He remembered little whispered speeches of hers, so like the Annabel of Paris, so unlike the woman he loved, a hundred little things should have told him long ago. You fell in at once with her quixotic and damnable scheme of foisting her reputation and her follies upon your shoulders whilst she marries a rich man and commences all over again a life of selfish pleasure. “And as for praying for faith—this sort of monologue is about as near as any one of my sort ever gets to prayer. But he was destined to have every tide of feeling awakened—every wound opened.
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