It was debauching, this—a devilish art which drew such strange allurements from a face and figure almost Madonna-like in their simplicity. What had urged her to wrench loose and fly was the guarding instinct of the good woman. "Fire!—murder—thieves!—I've got one of 'em!" "Come along," cried Jack. ” She stopped short, full of things un-said. Go easy. “Dear friend,” she said, “do you not think that you are breaking an unspoken compact? I am very sorry. It was not a difficult affair. "Oh God! she is dying," exclaimed Jack in a voice suffocated by emotion. She was sick of herself, of her life, of everything but him; and for him all her masked and hidden being was crying out.
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