"I don't deserve it," he said, at length; "but I would have risked a thousand deaths to enjoy this moment's happiness. Never had he corrected her with hand or whip, the ring in his voice had always been sufficient to cower her. He made his speech a little elaborately. I don't want her hurt. Why? He could preach the Word and deny Love!—tame the savage heart, succour broken white men!—pray with his face strained with religious fervour! The idea made her dizzy because it was so inexplicable. I always fall on my feet, you know. The white haze of poison clouded her eyes. I have very few friends in Paris.
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