“It is a great art,” she said in broken English. "Von't you hear me?—ough! ough!" demanded Sharples, after a pause. “Please let me drive you home. It did not matter that he wore the cloth; something was wrong with him. A strange betrothal!—the primal idea of which was escape! The girl, intent upon abrogating for ever all legal rights of the father in the daughter, of rendering innocuous the thing she had now named the Terror: the boy, seeking selfcrucifixion in expiation of his transgression, changing a peccadillo into damnation! It was easy for Ruth to surrender to the idea, for she believed she was loved; and in gratitude it was already her determination to give this boy her heart's blood, drop by drop, if he wanted it. I tell you, that girl would jump into the sea, rather. So is the chapel of All Souls at Oxford, and the great hall at Blenheim, and I don't know how many halls and chapels besides. Thank you for the books.
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