It’s a thing that’s happened to you. He reached for her chin and lifted it up. I shall take to him as nat'ral as if he were my own flesh and blood afore long. Afterward, one afternoon, he hovered about her, and came and sat beside her and talked of beauty and the riddle of beauty for some time. I said I knew he disliked and distrusted you and your work—that you shared all Russell’s opinions: he hates Russell beyond measure—and that we couldn’t possibly face a conventional marriage. The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally. To make sure work of it, I'll superintend the job myself. Still, the respite was sufficient for Spurlock to look about for some weapon. If you do not help me to read the riddle of yourself, Annabel, I think that very soon I shall be a candidate for the asylum.
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