E. Wood the carpenter. Blue haze had settled beyond the black silhouettes of trees, graduating to the deep violet that began the night sky. For the first time he seemed to wonder what it might be that she had to confess. And with a hideous expression of pain, he fainted. He would ask her to come to dinner with him in some little Italian or semiBohemian restaurant in the district toward Soho, or in one of the more stylish and magnificent establishments about Piccadilly Circus, and for the most part she did not care to refuse. Brendon’s had an awful stroke of luck. The struggles of the wounded man were desperate—so desperate, that in his agony he overset the table, and, in the confusion, tore off the cloth, and disclosed a face horribly mutilated, and streaming with blood. I could not love you else.
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