Even now she could trace the outline of his shape behind the left-hand curtain. Old London Bridge. It seemed to her that it was her duty to get up and clamor to go home to her room, to protest against his advances as an insult. I’ve had my time and lost my chances. Why? He could preach the Word and deny Love!—tame the savage heart, succour broken white men!—pray with his face strained with religious fervour! The idea made her dizzy because it was so inexplicable. Evidently in the flower of his age, he was scarcely less remarkable for symmetry of person than for comeliness of feature; and, though his attire was plain and unpretending, it was such as could be worn only by one belonging to the higher ranks of society.
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