“There was a man called Montague Hill,” she said hoarsely, “but he is dead. “Ruin me? Think of me with fondness? Are you dying of cancer or something?” He demanded. She realized more and more the quality of the brink upon which she stood—the dreadful readiness with which in certain moods she might plunge, the unmitigated wrongness and recklessness of such a self-abandonment. He hated to destroy it; but that was the obligation imposed; and he was an honourable man. . “And as for praying for faith—this sort of monologue is about as near as any one of my sort ever gets to prayer.
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