The picturesque scoundrel had the true gift; and Spurlock was filled with pity at the thought of such genius gone to pot. What the editor had to say none of the three cared just then. He declined to come in. You are my prisoner, murderer. Directly he saw Anna he accosted her. “And to think that it’s not a full year ago since I was a black-hearted rebel school-girl, distressed, puzzled, perplexed, not understanding that this great force of love was bursting its way through me! All those nameless discontents—they were no more than love’s birth-pangs. Don’t go back into Victorian respectability and pretend you don’t know and you can’t think and all the rest of it. This had well nigh been the case with the carpenter. It’s not you—not a bit. She sat drawn together in her chair in the corner of the box, at a loss what to say or do—afraid, curious, perplexed.
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