It did not occur to her that save for some accidents of education and character they had souls like her own. At present the world waits for that writer, and the confused record of the newspapers remains the only resource of the curious. It was a great weight from her shoulders to confide in another human being, and she suspected he did truly believe her. "No!" she cried. I hear her coming. The soi-disant Valade held the centre of the room now, only an uncovered but closed card-table, its surface dusty, between him and the suite at the fireplace. “What have you done?” 212 “It is your own fault, Lucia.
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