In fact he was thinking of other things. The sun was rising, illuminating the trees in black as if they were drawn in ink. It was debauching, this—a devilish art which drew such strange allurements from a face and figure almost Madonna-like in their simplicity. Look in the small hide-bound book that he keeps in his boot. Wood, leaping from the bed. “I heard the other day that she’d been taken in by some cad of a fellow who was cutting a great dash in Paris, personating Meysey Hill, the great railway man. You will never be happy with this hanging over you.
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