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But the move was a wrong one. Joyce rose to her own defence and Gaston's. "If you feel that way," she cried, "you can take yourself off." "I I don't feel that way," Jude returned illogically and meekly; "go on." "He's a good man, Jude Lauzoon; better than any one here in St. Angé; and he isn't our kind not mine, yours, or any one else's around here.

His honour and hers, and the benediction of Society if Society ever penetrated to the North Solitude. Joyce would forget her soul vision, she would marry Jock Filmer no; it was Jude Lauzoon who, for some unknown, girlish reason, she had preferred when she had been cast out from the circle of his, Gaston's protection.

"Heave 'em out, and then settle down 'mong facts." "Where is Jude Lauzoon?" This was hitting the bull's eye with a vengeance. "Gone off for change of air and scene somewhere." Jock presented a stolid, blank face to his inquisitor. "Gone where?" "Now how in how do you expect I know? Just gone." "Taken that pretty little wife of his to new scenes, eh?

Tate moistened his dirty fingers, and shuffled the envelopes. "Here's five or six for Gaston hisself one done up with a broad streak of black round it. It's got a dreadful thick envelope! Well, if I ain't blowed. Here is one for Joyce, and did you ever?" Billy was beside him now. "Done in printing. Well, if that don't beat the Injuns. Mis' Joyce Lauzoon that's good, Lauzoon!

She stood for some time in that relieved state. The chill of the deepening night soothed her, and the late new moon looked down through the pines at her then she turned sharply. Some one was near! Her startled glance fell upon Jude Lauzoon. He was crouching upon the step of the porch. "I thought you was sleeping, standing up," he whispered hoarsely. "I didn't want to scare you none."

Nor the man. The feller Jude Lauzoon is his name I don't care a durn for, but he's all gone over this girl, and if any one can steer him straight she can, and when she gets the reins in her hands, I believe she's going to keep her head, in order to steer straight. "The girl's name is Joyce Birkdale. Mother dead; raised sort of promiscuous on the instalment plan.

Had her subconscious self asserted itself, it would have boldly proclaimed its absolute superiority over other women of such make as poor Joyce Lauzoon. Not merely in the other's shocking lack of moral sense but in very essence. John Dale had suffered and had tried, in weak man-fashion, to solace himself. The world had helped to train Ruth Dale.

Long enough to know all, or just long enough to know half? What should he do? If Jude knew but half, no explanation could possibly avail. If he knew all; if he had been on guard before Joyce came been camping out with no definite purpose, since his late talk in the shack why, then it was simply a matter to be settled between Lauzoon and Joyce. God help her!

A light came into Jude's handsome, heavy face, which quickly vanished as the torturing jealousy, feeding upon a new hope, rose, defiantly. "You told him you cared and then he kissed you, damn him! Maybe he thinks he'll get you to take me, and then he'll go on with hand-holding and kissing all the safer." "Take that back," cried Joyce harshly. "Take that back, Jude Lauzoon."