She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town. What right had she to call herself “Alcide”? It was abominable, an imposture. " "Poor soul!—poor soul!" groaned Wood, brushing the tears from his vision. . Even Capes had been for her merely an excitant to passionate love—a mere idol at whose feet one could enjoy imaginative wallowings. ” “Thanks to me,” he repeated, puzzled. Wood," urged Jack. Her aunt, a faded, anæmic-looking lady of somewhat too obtrusive gentility, was still sitting with her hand pressed to her heart.
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