CHAPTER XXIII. "I could," replied Thames. ’ Gerald raised his brows. He was a manly man, free from any strong maternal strain, and he had loved his dark-eyed, dainty bright-colored, and active little wife with a real vein of passion in his sentiment. “I am afraid that you are making a mistake,” she said. She thought she had hidden well from him. “An uncle in New York is dead, and has left him loads of money. Taking the light, they then proceeded along the passage. Brendon and I are great chums,” he went on nervously. "Another moment, and it'll be too late. I hate what I am. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him.
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