Why? He could preach the Word and deny Love!—tame the savage heart, succour broken white men!—pray with his face strained with religious fervour! The idea made her dizzy because it was so inexplicable. Go to her, I say, and take her in your arms, you poor benighted Ironsides! I can't make you see. I can’t even make myself care. Paris looms behind—a tragedy of strange recollections—here she emerges Phœnix-like, subtly developed, a flawless woman, beautiful, self-reliant, witty, a woman with the strange gift of making all others beside her seem plain or vulgar. She could have traded it for gold nuggets and lived like a queen for a few weeks, but she did not. “You are the Sir John Ferringhall who has bought the Lyndmore estate, are you not?” she remarked. She wished he could smoke and dull his nerves a little.
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