His countenance was pale as death, but not a muscle quivered; nor did he betray the slightest appearance of fear. She was feeling extraordinarily well that night, so that the sense of her body was a deep delight, a realization of a gentle warmth and strength and elastic firmness. She dreaded leaving him for the night, but separated herself finally. Lord Charvill champed upon an invisible bit for a moment or two, closing the gap between himself and the girl, and muttering the name to himself in an overwrought sort of way. "The blood that has been spilt is that of his wife. "But never mind who, or what I am.
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