Chapter XXII AN OLD FOOL Lady Ferringhall made room for him on the sofa by her side. "His life—or yours?" "No one shall harm you more, my dear," cried Lady Trafford. Against the sinister, the threatening, monstrous inhumanity of the limitless city, there was nothing now but this supreme, ugly fact of a pursuit— the pursuit of the undesired, persistent male. He grunted, and his grip gave. ‘Do not speak of him. You’d make a good Devil. Yesterday!—who cared? To-morrow!—who knew? "Porpoise," she said, touching his hand. He could not kiss Ruth because the acquired conscience—struggling on its way to limbo—made the idea repellant. She did this to please him.
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