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" "Poor soul!—poor soul!" groaned Wood, brushing the tears from his vision. After a while he spoke again. I cannot turn into a bat. Husband of mine, I think we have rather overrated the emotional capacity of those—those dears. But one was clearly the goddess among them, her face hidden, her body seeming to call out to me to possess it at once. This mitigated her remorse enormously. I'll dispose of the brat. No sterner head was ever beheld beneath the cowl of a monk, or the bonnet of an inquisitor. “I know,” she said quietly, “that Paris, where she has been so much admired, is not a good place for her. The air was sweet with the perfume of flowers, and the melody of murmuring insects, the blue sky was cloudless, the heat of the sun was tempered by the heather-scented west wind.
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