This was good. The great ordeal—that which she had most dreaded—had proved to be no ordeal at all. The lighting-up pierced the obscurity of the box, and Ramage stopped his urgent flow of words abruptly and sat back. Presently, two carriages dashed down the hill, and drew up before it. Don’t try to shield anybody or hide anything. "I'll soon free you from these bracelets. 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. She intercepted the glance the spinsters exchanged, and immediately sensed that she had said too much. She leaped to a world of shabby knowledge, of furtive base realizations. I’ve a dread of love dropping its petals, becoming mean and ugly. .
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