But here the resemblance stopped. ‘While you are making me this interrogation, my poor Jacques bleeds to death. In all his life he had never realized a dream; but the thought had never before hurt him. And at the thought of that other lover—he was convinced that that beloved person was a lover, and she found herself unable to say a word to explain to him that this other person, the person she loved, did not even know of her love—Ramage grew angry and savage once more, and returned suddenly to gibe and insult. The great gray boles of the palms reminded him of some fabulous Grecian temple. The late afternoon, en effet.
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