If the creator drew a hero anything like himself, she would accept it as a sign that he did care a little. ‘Merci, Joan,’ cried Melusine, moving to her and seizing her hand which she clasped between both her own for a moment, as she turned to the others. What he needed most in this hour was a bottle of American rye-whisky and a friendly American bar-keep to talk to. Luckily, she was bereft of consciousness, and was thus spared the additional misery of witnessing what afterwards befell him. In fine, to marry Ruth (if she would consent) as a punishment for what he had done! To whip his soul so long as he lived, but to let his body go free! To provide for her, to work and dream for her, to be tender and thoughtful and loyal, to shelter and guard her, to become accountable to God for her future. Wood. Over the sea of heads arose a black and dismal object.
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