She let out a wail. Papillon would have broken him down; anything tender would have sapped his will; and like as not he would have left the stool and rushed into the night. The idea that he held in his arms the girl whom he had once so passionately loved, and for whom he still retained an ardent but hopeless attachment, almost overcame him. And turning again, as if the emotions she had churned up kept her on the move, she paced back to the mantel and there stopped, staring at her own reflection in the tarnished mirror. But the sheer immensity of the tract! James Boyle was certainly up against it, hard. As Wood obeyed, his foot slipped; and, casting his eyes upon the floor, he perceived it splashed in several places with blood. .
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