The struggles of the wounded man were desperate—so desperate, that in his agony he overset the table, and, in the confusion, tore off the cloth, and disclosed a face horribly mutilated, and streaming with blood. Slowly a mirthless and very unpleasant smile dawned upon his face. Even in the daylight, it had a sombre and suspicious air, and seemed to slink back from the adjoining houses, as if afraid of their society. She felt his tongue press into her mouth. In vain Wood protested his innocence. He had deliberately saved it for last. CHAPTER XV. She hid behind a mirage of piety, just as I do. Even in his fevered hours, so the girl had said, his tongue had not betrayed him. Idiote. The girl wished that she had come afoot, despite the knowledge that she would have suffered many inconveniences, accidental and intentional jostling, insolence and ribald jest.
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