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How could you draw the curtain aside which hides the great and holy places of life—you, who have never loved?” “You have become French to the core,” she murmured. "Have you been more successful, Sir?" ventured Ireton. The little grating in the door, the sense of constant inspection, worried her. Spurling. He dashed against the screen door before she could catch him and made the veranda. The night had swallowed him up, but his work on her was done. Dizzily, she grabbed at the mantel for support and, resting her head on her hands, paid no heed to a betraying sound behind her—until an unexpected arm encircled her. "Mr. But I do not know you at all, in truth, and I do not understand why you do this. "Good Lord!—cannibals?" "Aye.
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