"Heaven have mercy on his soul!" ejaculated Wood. But it don't much matter—though he's a devilish shrewd fellow, and might have helped me out of a difficulty, had any occurred. 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. Wood uttered something like an imprecation. “She contrives somehow to strike the personal note in an amazing manner. And she defies me. There was a little pause between them, full for Ann Veronica of rapid elusive suspicions and intimations. . ‘But do you think I can blame you for this, Marthe?’ ‘I blame myself.
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