Her head ached with a hollow pain. Sydney was watching her eagerly. If he escapes at all, it must be before our faces. “It’s the spring,” he said. Either you have had to love people or hate them—which is a sort of love, too, in its way—to get anything out of them. Tell me a story—with apple-blossoms in it—about people who are happy. ‘A little promenade, madame?’ Madame Valade rose from the chintz-covered chair with alacrity and a little rustle of her silken petticoats. She read for half an hour, then closed the book because Spurlock appeared to have fallen asleep. It was maddening to be made to feel that he was in any way the inferior of this cool, self-possessed young woman, whose eyes seemed for a moment to scintillate with scorn. ‘You keep a-hold of him,’ Trodger ordered his men. “Lots of ‘em!” Capes chuckled. There lay upon this stand a book bound in limp black leather—the Holy Bible. Instantly she seized the poker and made a desperate effort to get them out again.
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