"Yes; and I hope you'll take ample vengeance upon him," said Quilt. He stopped on the curb-stone, not facing her but as if he was on his way to cross the road, and spoke to her suddenly over his shoulder. His invalid wife and her money had been only the thin thread that held his life together; beaded on that permanent relation had been an inter-weaving series of other feminine experiences, disturbing, absorbing, interesting, memorable affairs. It would not be possible otherwise to live in daily contact with this level-eyed, lovely girl without loving her. They were talking of “Alcide,” as they often did in those days. " And, having partaken of a hasty breakfast, he set out. ‘His granddaughter?’ ‘Yes, his son’s daughter. I wonder what men would say if we threw the mask aside—if we really told them what WE thought of them, really showed them what WE were. Spurling, indignantly; "but I can tell you we have. I will give you all some tea, and then I must leave you for a few minutes. “You see, it comes after all,” she continued, “from certain original convictions which have become my religion. "Are you his ghost, then?" "No—no," answered Jack. "Concerning whom?" "Mrs. Annabel was born soulless, a human butterfly, if ever there was one.
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