‘No, my poor guardian,’ Gerald mocked. He could not pull her soul apart now to satisfy that queer absorbing, delving thing which was his literary curiosity; he had put her outside that circle. She ran down alleyways and between buildings, faster than an Olympian, until she could hear his voice no more. She's fine. Right now my heart is occupied. He then made off. But she did not know what he knew, that it would always be rolling up, enlivened by suggestion, no matter how trifling. Why hadn't he admitted that he recognized the photograph? What instinct had impelled him swiftly to assume his Oriental mask? "Why?" asked O'Higgins. She heard this standard expression of a strong soul wrung with a critical coldness that astonished herself.
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