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Dead against my conviction, mind you, but what else could I do? God help me, I played the renegade to what I sincerely believed. I couldn't see her done to death by a world of satyrs." "Of course you couldn't, my dear man," cried Chevenix. "Girls of her sort must be married, you know." "I don't know anything of the kind," replied Senhouse, fiercely; "but I loved her. You may put it that I funked.
This sum was accepted, and sent on board the ships of war, when 18,000 Tartars marched out of Canton. Many officers and men suffered from the fatigues they underwent, and Sir Humphrey Le Fleming Senhouse died in consequence of the exertions to which he had been exposed.
He was staring straight before him out to sea. The steamer was under way. "Married a queer old file in Berkshire, who died worth a plum. Goodish time ago. They called him Fowls, or Fowls of the Air. So she's still a widow, eh?" Senhouse nodded. "She's his widow." Then he asked, "You know her? You might go and amuse her. I can't, because of these bonds."
Senhouse, her poetical friend and teacher her only friend, her only confidant had dubbed her Artemis; and it may well have been his adoring service of her pure flame which first turned it inwards, to scorch her heart. All that she had learned of this scholar gypsy she poured out as balm over the stricken Ingram, who swallowed it and her together.
"You are talking above my head," said the stranger, "or above your own. Either I am a fool, or you a madman. You love a woman, and give her to another man? You love her, and secure her in slavery? You love her, and don't want her?" "It is I that am the fool, not you," said Senhouse. "I do want her. I want nothing else in earth or heaven. And yet I know that I have her for ever.
The man, her husband, is her master, but not a bad one. She knows it, and glories in him. Isn't that extraordinary?" "Not at all," Glyde said, who knew nothing of Mary. "It's a law of Nature. The woman follows the man. I suppose you treated her as an equal?" "No, as a superior, which she plainly was," said Senhouse. "Then," Glyde said, looking at him, "then you made her so.
She was my dearest friend, and is so still, I hope." The solemnity of his intended message clouded Mr. Chevenix's candid brow. "She's still at Wanless, you know." Senhouse set a watch upon himself. "No doubt she is," he said. "She's well?" The other probed him. "She's never made it up with her people. I think she feels it nowadays." Senhouse asked sharply, "Where's Ingram?"
I have not the slightest doubt that sheer love of the road and only a tramp knows what those words mean is the controlling influence which keeps fifty per cent of the fraternity its willing slaves. What was Senhouse that most fascinating of Maurice Hewlett's creations but a tramp? A gentleman tramp, if you please, but still a tramp.
I'm a companionable beggar, I believe; and here I was in a ship where I didn't know a living soul until I met you and Senhouse. Didn't even know that you knew Senhouse. Queer fish, eh? Oh, the queerest fish in the sea! But you know all that, of course." Mrs.
Her form, her glow, her eager, lovely breath are her soul put into speech for us to read. You might say that her nobility was that of the Jungfrau on a night of stars. So her body's beauty is but a poem written by God about her soul." Glyde sat up and looked at him across the fire. "I know you. There is but one man who has loved her as you do. You are her poet. You are Senhouse." Senhouse nodded.
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