Her heart swelled to suffocation. He was a comforting, humorous old ruffian; but there were few men in the Orient more deeply read in psychology and physiognomy. One can't help being jealous, you know, even of an unworthy object. That old chap has a remarkable range in reading. She followed Oxford Street into Holborn, and then she inquired for Chancery Lane. We pretend we never think of everything that makes us what we are. She almost sprang to her feet. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. But it was only when that damned scoundrel nearly spitted you in the chapel—’ He broke off and, to her intense satisfaction she saw he was not as much in command of himself as he would have her believe. She was glad when he went on: “I want to be your city of refuge from every sort of bother.
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