"There," cried Jackson, closing the book and rising, "that'll do. Herculis was a port city on the Tyrrhenian Sea not far from where the manor had been. He swore that I was his wife, that chance had given me to him at last. 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. At that a new element poured into her excitement, an element of wild disgust and terror. I hate myself!” She collapsed to the floor, sobbing. No wonder that Trenchard, as he gazed at this fearful being, should have some misgivings cross him. She fought the inclination for a while, then surrendered. A marriage in the house proved to be exciting but extremely disorganizing. She saw it, and checked without thinking. Somebody may be on the watch—perhaps, that old ginger-hackled Jew. God knows how you did it.
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