" "I will, when I've had my revenge," muttered Jack. He could not make good his hold. Take that box, and put it into the carriage yourself. ‘I can take care of myself, bête. Then she went back and mixed up the sheets in a search for particular passages. It did not seem quite fair. Horrible doubts assailed her. ” “And what do you think I ought to do?” “Exactly!” He lifted a paper-weight and dabbed it gently down again. They were childless and servantless, and they had reduced simple living to the finest of fine arts. She was sick of herself, of her life, of everything but him; and for him all her masked and hidden being was crying out. She was vehemently impatient—she did not clearly know for what—to do, to be, to experience.
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