But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. He, next, tried to clamber up the flying buttresses and soffits of the pier, in the hope of reaching some of the windows and other apertures with which, as a man-of-war is studded with port-holes, the sides of the bridge were pierced. A jar of pink roses upon a tiny table seemed to gain an extra delicacy of colour from the sombre curtains behind. But through the fault of that pig, who dared to call himself Valade and masquerade in society under her birthright. Gerald’s breath caught. She approached Ruth with open arms; and something in the way the child came into that kindly embrace hurt the older woman to the point of tears. ‘You’re not going to kill me this time. ’ Joan nodded, her face still averted.
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