Wood was so much exhausted that he was obliged to retire to his own room, where he continued for some hours overpowered by grief. The flowers and turf, a wild strawberry, a rare butterfly, and suchlike little intimate things had become more interesting than mountains. The noose was at its throat when I called for help. Sheppard. He pictured himself visiting the girl in this shabby little home of her aunt’s—she had told him that it was shabby—and he recalled that delicious little smile with which she would surely greet him, a smile which seemed to be a matter of the eyes as well as the lips. His attitude toward her was purely intellectual, free of any sentimentality, utterly selfish. “These are the playgrounds of life. You care for me just a little, I know. Around her neck was a little gold chain. You have made your public, you are already a personage. “Don’t befool me any more,” he answered, almost roughly.
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