" "Your ladyship——" hesitated Norris. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. All alone; and nobody cared whether he lived or died. And then there came for both of them at least a temporary awakening. "I'm at your mercy, Poll," rejoined Kneebone, abjectly. And she buried herself beneath the straw, which she tossed above her head with the wildest gestures. “Love should be enough, John, but it never is. .
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