” She said bitterly. Think if your own mother was alive!” He paused, deeply moved. Perhaps this was the real turning point: the hour in which the disordered mind began permanently to readjust itself. . He leaned back in a low chair, and watched her graceful movements, the play of her white hands as she bent over some wonderful machine. He temporized, and the girl raised her eyes once more to his. With some difficulty he contrived to raise her to the window, and with still greater difficulty to squeeze her through it—her bulk being much greater than his own. She was the actress his whim had chosen to play a passive part.
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