Its smooth surface soothed her nerves. ” “It seems so—so unworthy”—she picked among her phrases “of the noble love you give—” She stopped, through the difficulty she found in expressing herself. Yes, yes; that was all very well in ordinary cases; but yonder was a soul in travail, if ever she had seen one. He watched her constantly, trapped her in corners and slept with his arms locking her like a human cage. She was about to rush to his side, when she saw his clenched hands rise and fall upon the sand repeatedly. Somewhere in the world there was a book clerk with a discerning mind; for he had given her the best he had. Into one of these he waded and rolled and rolled, despite her commands. All through that brief but measureless space of time during which wonder kept him silent, as fear did her, she cowered there, a limp helpless object. “We have a small studio,” she murmured, “in the Rue de St. Wood, in deploring his wild career, adverted to the melancholy condition to which it had reduced his mother.
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