. He forgot for the moment his own self-pity, the egotism of his own passionate love. . “Stuffy these trees make the Avenue,” said Mr. “Every one. ” “I have a clue, at any rate,” he remarked, smiling. “I might return the compliment, Courtlaw,” he answered, “by asking why the devil you come lurching on to the pavement like a drunken man. ’ ‘But, Marthe, you do not imagine that I would have taken the veil like you, even if you have not told me. Almost worthy of your own fertile imagination. There were neither texts nor rubbish on the walls, but only a stirring version of Belshazzar’s feast, a steel engraving in the early Victorian manner that had some satisfactory blacks.
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