She stood 218 there, broken bottle still in hand. The blood will rest on your head. She leaned back in the cab with half-closed eyes. A tinge of admiration rose in his breast. “She’s been up to no good, Sheila. What about your luggage?” “I could get a few of my things, at any rate,” she said. 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. But that was soon put right, and she walked out into London with a peculiar exaltation of mind, an exaltation that partook of panic and defiance, but was chiefly a sense of vast unexampled release.
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