It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat. She saw her aunt in tears, her father white-faced and hard hit. I’d rather starve!” For a moment the conversation hung upon that declaration. If only she had thought to plunge the scissors into her own heart! Hoddy … to return and find her either gone or dead! But even as the Wastrel's arms gathered her, there came the sound of hurrying steps on the veranda. The cloth was removed, and Wood, drawing the table as near the window as possible—for it was getting dusk —put on his spectacles, and opened that sacred volume from which the best consolation in affliction is derived, and left the lovers—for such they may now be fairly termed—to their own conversation. To Spurlock's observing eye, Enschede's wrinkles multiplied and the folds in his clothes. Tell me that you are not sorry to see me again. T.
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