"How shall I get to you?" "My yacht is in the river. I wish to prevent a repetition of any such errand as I presume you have come here upon this evening. I didn’t dream, not even in my wildest dreaming, that—you might have any need of me. The same old lines and verses, over and over, until there had come times when shrieking would have relieved her. ” She patted his arm and wiped her tears away. 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. Every man in her life had betrayed her one way or another.
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