"Have a moment's patience, Sir Rowland," returned Wild; "and you shall hear. Chapter Seven ‘Oh, my God,’ burst from Gerald. Wood, whose loss I shall ever deplore. I have no right to love you. And nearly all these things were fearfully ill-paid. I do not admit the truth of a word which you have said. She realized dimly that there was no personal thing behind his cry, that countless myriads of Mannings had “My God!”-ed with an equal gusto at situations as flatly apprehended. Yesterday this glorious creature had loved him; to-day she was only friendly. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. “A serious question. ” It was sitting in her suitcase in the same pocket as the expired bus tickets. ’ The sergeant’s air became positively avuncular.
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