The recollection of the forlorn and loveless years—stirred into consciousness by the unexpected confrontation—bent her as the high wind bends the water-reed. ‘But only think, Hilary,’ Lucy protested, evidently too involved in her theory to waste time in scolding. You'll be answerable for his escape. Had she not seen them go forth with tracts in their pockets and grins in their beards? To set fire to his imagination, to sting his sense of chivalry into being, to awaken his manhood, she must present some irresistible project. Do you know the story of Orpheus? He was a musician who followed his damned wife into Hell to bring her back? He was one of us, I believe. It is the only way. "Are you his ghost, then?" "No—no," answered Jack. ‘I know that, miss. It feels like it. I believed that she was my wife, or she would have been safe from me.
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