But she did not know what he knew, that it would always be rolling up, enlivened by suggestion, no matter how trifling. The primitive superstition of his Puritan forbears was his; and before this the buckler of his education disintegrated. She really must not go to that affair. You are your own Heaven and your own Hell, Lucy. His analytical bent saved him many times, though he was not sensitive to this. I was—I was a corespondent. When he came to a certain sentence in Brendon’s letter he stopped short and looked up at her. As she danced there was in her ears the faded echo of wooden tom-toms. Sheppard. Spurlock slumped in his chair, weak and empty.
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