Some of the delicate colour which the afternoon walk had brought into her cheeks had already returned. I’m not a bit afraid of anything—scandal, difficulty, struggle. She was on the rim of civilization, entering, as Spurlock was on the rim, preparing to make his exit. Yet her aunt, with a ringed hand flitting to her lips and a puzzled, worried look in her eyes, deaf to all this riot of warmth and flitting desire, was playing Patience—playing Patience, as if Dionysius and her curate had died together. The baby crawled towards them, seeking their blood. Seeing Jack at liberty, he instantly seized him, and a struggle commenced. Clearing the recess the instant after his companion, he flew to the door of the inner room, and, locking it, took out the key. 47 was no more than a sort of railway compartment on the way to that. . . Ennison kicked it away with his foot.
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