” “Not exactly,” he answered nervously. Almost light-heartedly. She used to play violin, you know. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. Cursed him for his devotion that had made him come back for her, only to get himself shot by the fiendish Gosse. The image in the glass was not clear, for the light was not bright enough to see properly, but the shadows of her riding habit and the hat with its waving plumes framed a countenance that gazed serenely back at her out of long-lashed blue eyes.
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