She spoke slowly. She felt she had to go on. “Well, I don’t know,” she said thoughtfully. "Is your master at home?" inquired the jailer. The joy of being loved thrilled her as nothing before had ever done, a curious abstract joy which had nothing in it at that moment of regret or even pity. ” “Don’t say that,” Sydney begged. To-morrow I am going to Paris. At least I can’t talk to them. “I will MAKE you love me! Until he has faded—faded into a memory. The London backgrounds, in Bloomsbury and Marylebone, against which these people went to and fro, took on, by reason of their gray facades, their implacably respectable windows and window-blinds, their reiterated unmeaning iron railings, a stronger and stronger suggestion of the flavor of her father at his most obdurate phase, and of all that she felt herself fighting against.
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