But her cries, instead of moving her assailant's compassion, only added to his fury. Standing over the pierced Rhea, Lucy bayed, a long cry that was half-scream and half-howl. She slept in a bedroom clad in linens and skins, walked down hallways bedecked in the most gay and colorful frescos. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. Ruth loved him. She wanted to live. As he turned the handle, it moved, and the door was taken from his hand and pulled outward by the young footman. "Curiosity, I suppose," returned Jack, carelessly.
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