Above the work-table was a drop-light—kerosene. She went to the post-office and drew out and sent off her money to Ramage. ” “For my infertility. It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat. Wood heard the cry. ‘You usually do,’ he said lightly. The fire—if there was any in him—never made headway against this insistant demand to know the significance of these manifold inward agitations. She shuddered; the room was unfamiliar and unwelcoming. One mistress enough to ruin a man,—two, the devil. Her hand came up and she laced her fingers with his.
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