He could not pull her soul apart now to satisfy that queer absorbing, delving thing which was his literary curiosity; he had put her outside that circle. A long shrill cat-call in the gallery seemed to be the signal. Tell me, Sir," she added, with forced calmness, and grasping Wood's arm; "what has Jack done? Tell me in a word, that I may know the worst. ” “Yes, it is. “Does he live here?” he asked her presently. She wanted him, she needed sex, but the two ideas had not formed an equation where a concrete result could be deduced. "What is this?" she wanted to know. Yesterday this glorious creature had loved him; to-day she was only friendly. And this shall be your diet till you die. She had tried him as a Crusader, in which guise he seemed plausible but heavy—“There IS something heavy about him; I wonder if it’s his mustache?”—and as a Hussar, which made him preposterous, and as a Black Brunswicker, which was better, and as an Arab sheik.
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