He leaned back in a low chair, and watched her graceful movements, the play of her white hands as she bent over some wonderful machine. She would be haunted by the visions of their mad faces in her dreams for the next hundred years. Her secret thoughts made some hasty, half-hearted excursions into the possibility of telling the thing in romantic tones—Ramage was as a black villain, she as a white, fantastically white, maiden. Holding down the light, he perceived that the wounded man had risen to the surface, and was trying to clamber up the slippery sides of the well. Her mind had been and was full of the thought of Capes, a huge generalized Capes-lover. Manning told her he loved beauty, and extorted a similar admission from her; he then expatiated upon his own love of beauty. I can no longer bear to address you by that formal madame. Sheppard, whose maternal fears drew her in another direction, hurried off to the Mint.
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