"What does Mr. I had a sort of idea,” he went on, “that you were starting life all over again, and it seemed awfully plucky. ” He began. ’ He sighed, spread his hands quite in her own manner, and fluttered his lashes. The picturesque scoundrel had the true gift; and Spurlock was filled with pity at the thought of such genius gone to pot. It now came to him with an added thrill how well she had told her story; simply and directly, no skipping, no wandering hither and yon: from the first hour she could remember, to the night she had fled in the proa, a clear sustained narrative. "But I wish her hand had been as deadly as yours.
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