She turned to face him and he kissed her. She had been fighting down this thought for days: that Hoddy did not care, that he did not love her, that he had mistaken a vagary of the mind for a substance, and now regretted what he had done— married a girl who was not his equal in anything. "Here, Tom," he added, calling to a shop-boy, "run and fetch a constable. "Jack Sheppard," returned the boy, fixing his eyes upon a portrait of the Earl of Mar. He recalled with exasperating perplexity her clear, matter-of-fact tone as she talked about love-making being unconvincing. Sheppard, smiling through her tears. 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. Why? Because Howard Spurlock the author dared not risk the liberty of Howard Spurlock the malefactor; because there were still some dregs in this cup of irony. The crash was tremendous. She occupied a small sofa, a little apart, a ruddy-complexioned gentleman some years her senior beside her, and glanced about with an air of considerable unease.
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