There it was—to be borrowed. "Cease your confounded clutter!" said a young man, whose swarthy visage, seen in the torchlight, struck Wood as being that of a Mulatto. ‘Damn you, what’s the matter with you?’ he snapped in frustration. ” It was her last evening in that wrappered life against which she had rebelled. ” She realized it was possible to be sorry for him—acutely sorry for the situation. Her face expressed nothing. To lose was death, quickly and mercilessly delivered. ‘What did you do with the portrait then? Not that I suppose it is much use any longer. She turned into the study, sat down at the table and fingered the pencils, curiously stirred. Upon my word, Anna,” she declared, with a strange little laugh, “you are a thousand times more like me as I was two months ago than I am myself. People shrug their shoulders and call me a crazy socialist.
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