She savored the sweetness of his lips, all of his great youth and passion and longed for his innocence, his complete lack of the knowledge of terrible things. She was trying by some wonderful, secret, and motionless gymnastics to restrain her tears. She winced as he thrust the fact at her, was about to answer, and checked herself. Everything in his favour—the luck of the gods! The only white men were miles down the coast. That poor child, trying to escape, and not knowing how. She ran 60 past it with melancholic dread towards the slope that led to the ocean. At last, after a long rumbling journey in a stuffy windowless van, she reached Canongate Prison—for Holloway had its quota already. She thought of the marvellous beauty of skin, and all the delightfulness of living texture. Her usual dignified reserve had availed her nothing. They all left the room. The picturesque scoundrel had the true gift; and Spurlock was filled with pity at the thought of such genius gone to pot. She went about, intentlooking and self-possessed, trim and fine, concealing her emotions whatever they were, as the realities of her position opened out before her. ‘I want a word with you, my lad. Fascination.
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