James Figg was the most perfect master of self-defence of his day. Was that it? Had she clothed this unhappy young man with glamour? Or was it because he was so alone? She could not get through the husks to the kernel of what really actuated her. Nevertheless, she could not prevent a rising excitement as the dawn of the new life drew near to her—a thrilling of the nerves, a secret and delicious exaltation above the common circumstances of existence. "So you're writing under a nom de plume, eh?" said McClintock, holding out the letter. He had informed her that to leave him would be a choice to live a life of meager subsistence. The sing-song girls in Hong-Kong are far handsomer. I want to be your knight, your servant, your protector, your—I dare scarcely write the word—your husband.
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