Presently he heard her voice. “I don’t know whether I shall go on,” said Gwen, a novel note of languorous professionalism creeping into her voice. Towards this box Sharples directed his steps, and, unlocking a hatch in the door, disclosed a recess scarcely as large, and certainly not as clean, as a dog-kennel. Fatigued by his previous exertions, and incumbered by his fetters, he was by no means—though ordinarily remarkably swift of foot—a match for his foes, who were fast gaining upon him. She could run away from him, if she wished, as she had run away from her father; she could carry out the original adventure. “Lucy! You found me! I was just about to sleep some of those rum and Cokes off like the pig I am. All her tender lures, inherent and acquired, had shattered themselves futilely against the reserve he had set between them. “It is hateful—diabolical!” he exclaimed. That she possessed any sense of humour was in itself one of those human miracles which metaphysicians are always pothering over without arriving anywhere; for her previous environment had been particularly humourless.
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